'63 SEASON IS JUST AROUND THE BEND, AND LEFTY LOOKS LIKE A HOLDOUT

Feb. 24,1963

To: George Kirksey,
Vice President, Houston Colts .45s

From: Lefty
Subj: Wages

Dear G.K.,
     I would have written you sooner but I laughed so hard at the last
contract you sent me that I hurt my side, and it was very painful to try
to hold a pencil.
     I see in the papers where all the pitchers and catchers are out in
Apache Junction, except me and Merritt Ranew.  Frankly, I would like to be
out there with you as I could use the rest.  But as you know Alice and I
plan to get wedlocked, and whoever said two could live as cheaply as one
must have been thinking about goldfish.
     Really, George, I did not expect a very large salary.  But don't you
think a dollar and fifty cents an hour is a little ridiculous?
     You keep mentioning last year.  Why do you do that, George?  You do
not strike me as the type of person who always lives in the past.  I
realize that I had the worst earned run average on the club.  I know I
gave up the most walks, hits, home runs and wild pitches, and broken
shoelaces.
     But what the heck, nobody is perfect.
     Why don't we talk about next year instead, and all the wonderful
games I plan to win for the Colt .45s?  For one thing, I am in the best
shape of my life and I am completely over that football injury I suffered
last November.  (I fell off a bar stool watching the Aggie-Texas game on
television.)
     I am working out daily, running two laps around the house to open up
the pores.  One must be careful not to get over-trained.  I read about a
farm boy in New Jersey who lifted a young cow daily for several months. 
He finally quit on the advice of his doctor, though I have an idea that
sheer boredom had something to do with it.
     Anyway, if you will look it up you will find that I was a hard luck
pitcher in 1962.  In 11 of the games I started the club failed to score
half as many runs as I gave up.  "Lefty," the folks at home keep saying,
"if it wasn't for bad luck you wouldn't have no luck a'tall."
     Now George, I'm 22 and a half years old and getting to the point
where I must think about the future.  I have a real good job here in Point
Desolate, working in my Uncle Philo's feed and grain store.  Last month we
sold over 3,000 pounds of chicken feed, and as we say around the store
that ain't money.  Ha,ha.
     I hate to admit this but I am growing homesick for Apache Junction. 
I was sitting on the porch the other night, swatting flies and stringing
them up by their fuzzy little legs, as an example to other flies.  And I
got to thinking about how nice it is out there this time of year.  Haven't
had any more trouble with the Apaches have they?
     Some of the guys run the place down a lot and call it the poor man's
College Station.  But remember Eddie Olivares, the rookie outfielder from
Puerto Rico?  He brought his bride to Apache Junction for their honeymoon
last spring.  Boy, I bet Niagara Falls trembled at the news.  Eddie broke
his leg the second week of camp and missed the entire season.  But I don't
guess they can blame that on Apache Junction.
     I got to thinking about the 1962 season, our first in the big
leagues, and you know what really stood out in my mind?  No, not us losing
less than 100 games, which was truly a grand achievement.  No, not Farrell
throwing a spitter to Stan Musial or hitting Willie Mays with pitches
twice in one game.  Or Bob Cerv getting thrown out at home trying to score
from second on a triple.
     They were all great thrills, of course.  But the day I'll never
forget was the one in Los Angeles when Hal Woodeshick won the West Coast
cow milking championship from Lee Walls of the Dodgers.  Woody darn near
filled that pail up, and it was a sight to see him sitting on that little
stool, squeezing his way to victory.  Woody had the situation well in
hand, so to speak.  
     George, I am surprised at you.  In your letter you said that you
heard some of the boys like to hit it up at the soda fountain once in a
while, and you asked me if I drink.  I just want you to know that if I
have to drink to make this ball club, I'll give up baseball.
     But back to the contract.  Now you said that you would gladly give me
a raise if it was up to you, but of course it isn't your money and so it
isn't up to you and so forth.  You also quoted Mr. Richards as saying if I
didn't like the contract I could lump it, and he would trade me to the
Mets for an electric fan, to replace the one that Norm Larker kicked one
night in the dugout and broke.
     However, having a keen sense of humor, I say let bygones be bygones. 
We really aren't so far apart.  Make it $1.75 an hour and I'll see you at
Geronimo Park.
                                              You Know Me, George.
                                              Lefty.