baseball veeck

Kickass, the doorstop dog, sleeping off the big baseball thing, listened to a story from his keeper: “I was writing columns for the Tribune in the early eighties and wandered out to the Wrigley bleachers on a beautiful summer afternoon.  Bill Veeck, as he often did, was enjoying the game with a group of raucous cronies, and I wrote a column about it, describing, among other things, how the sun was reflecting off Veeck’s wooden leg.  Some damn editor removed that phrase and said it unnecessarily pointed to a personal handicap.  I didn’t kill him on the spot, but maybe I should have.

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