He had almost forgotten the gravelly voice on the other end of the line. “Hello, Tabby. How’re ya’ doin’?” “Who’s this?” he asked, to give himself some time to compose an answer to the question he knew was going to be asked. “Hey—y’ain’t forgot your old pal Pat, have ya’?” “Nah, I remember. You’re wastin’ both your time and mine. Don’t bother callin’ no more.” And he hung up the phone. When it rang again, he ignored it for the first 15 rings, then he picked up the receiver long enough to stop the ringing, and then hung it up again. Evidently, Trenowski, for that’s who the caller was, got the message, and there were no more calls that night. First thing next morning, Tabby called the phone company, had his number changed and made it unlisted. He was visually disturbed as he arrived at the stadium to get ready for his evening pitching turn. The other players could sense it, Willie Fontana could sense it, and Molly herself could tell something was wrong.
