LEFTY AND THE HOUSTON COLTS MEET LAS VEGAS, AND LAS VEGAS LOSES
Las Vegas, Nev.
March 25, 1963
Dear Alice,
Well, I could not stand it any longer so I packed my wash-and-wear
seersucker suit and my old 78 record of Nelson Eddy singing "Stout-Hearted
Men" and I reported to camp. Mr. Richards convinced me that I was wrong
to hold out for more money. He explained to me about the tax laws and
capital gains and then he said, "Ask not what the Colt .45s can do for
you, Lefty. Ask what you can do for the Colt .45s."
Fortunately, he happened to have a contract with him so he pricked my
thumb and I signed.
We are in Las Vegas today to open a series against the Angels, and it
sure feels good to get out of Apache Junction and be someplace where you
can rest. It is just one wild time after another at Apache Junction.
The other night Chris Zachary and Darrell Brandon and Cliff Davis,
and some of the other young rookies, were sitting in the lobby of the
hotel and suddenly one of them jumped up and screamed: "If we spend
another minute sitting on this couch I'll go buggy. Let's go
somewhere...anywhere."
So we all walked across the street to the laundromat and washed our
dirty clothes. We put a dollar's worth of soap flakes into each machine
and, boy, those shirts really came out white. Especially the blue ones.
But I sure hope we decide to keep our spring training camp in good
ole Apache Junction. There has been talk that we might move to Yuma, and
I hope not as I understand that Yuma is the hub of a large center of
nothing. On the other hand Apache Junction has grown so that I hardly
recognize it. They've built three new filling stations since last year.
What a spring this has been, Alice. I report to camp two weeks late
and the second night I'm here I come down with desert fever, sometimes
known as the Apache Junction plague. I had a headache, sore throat,
chapped lips, tired blood and insomnia. I'm a solid month ahead of my
1962 pace. I didn't feel this lousy last year until May.
You know me, Alice. I'm not easily impressed, but this Las Vegas
beats anything I ever saw. The people here gamble on anything that moves,
rolls or blinks, including traffic lights, and they never go to sleep. If
they need rest they just faint every half hour.
We came out here Saturday morning on a large airplane and we are
going back on a smaller one. The casino at the Sands Hotel won five of
our bonus kids.
You just wouldn't believe it. People come out here for a visit and
they walk into one of these gambling joints and they fall into a trance.
They don't snap out of it until their last chip is gone, give or take a
few minutes.
You have to walk past the slot machines to get from the lobby of our
hotel to the dining room. Luman Harris says that if you walk very fast
and keep your eyes straight ahead you can get there and not lose more than
$20.
It is a common sight to see beautiful wimmen in mink coats playing
nickel slot machines, and when those little lemons and plums and tinker
bells start whirring they wouldn't recognize their own husbands, which is
probably a good thing.
Nancy Giles, the wife of our traveling sec, put a dime in a telephone
and got back 50 cents, and a man rushed over and gave her a diamond
stickpin that is engraved with the words: "I hit the jackpot at the Sands
Hotel."
One guy says he lost $90 on the stamp machine, and I don't doubt it.
I'll tell you one thing, Alice. The sorriest sound on this earth is the
ka-chunk, ka-chunk, ka-chunk of a slot machine that doesn't pay off.
It's kind of funny how fresh and full of energy and vinegar all us
Colt .45s were when the plane landed. But I noticed that working out for
today's game some of the boys ran on their tiptoes. I bumped into one of
our pitchers in front of the hotel this morning and, boy, did he look like
an emergency case. "Gimme two aspirins," he growled, " and don't slam the
lid."
I guess the funniest thing of all is what happened to Rusty Staub,
our rookie first baseman. It's a true story, but I don't think that hurts
it any.
Judge Hofheinz, he's the president of the club, is out here and he
decided to lay a little party on us at the Copa Room of the Sands. Well,
Rusty had put his street shoes in his overnight bag and left it in the
lobby with all the other luggage when we checked in.
After the game we all picked up our bags, and Carroll Hardy got
Rusty's by mistake. So get this, Alice. When Rusty called the desk to
find out Carroll's room number they wouldn't give it to him, "because we
do not give out the room numbers of our FEMALE guests."
Get it? They thought Carroll was a girl. See there, Alice, I told
you a man couldn't get into any trouble in Las Vegas.
Anyway Rusty finally got his shoes and came to the judge's party, and
we had quite a time. The judge sets a nice table, as we say, and I think
Don Mc Mahon and Don Nottebart ate their weight in chateaubriand.
Jan Murray and Patti Page were the stars of the floor show, and it
sure beat any pre-game ceremony I ever saw. Jan Murray introduced us and
he mentioned that the New York Mets are his team. He says they finished
so far back last season they came in second in the National Football
League.
You know, we were supposed to spend three nights here but it was cut
down to one. Our manager, Harry Craft, sure has a lot of confidence in
us. It's just as well though, since we have already suffered one injury.
George Brunet pulled a groin muscle carrying all those silver dollars in
his pocket.
Turk Farrell says he had so little luck gambling, he would have
gotten better odds if he had thrown his money into the commode and pulled
the crank. But it's not really that bad. The rooms are really elegant,
and none of them have television sets so you won't lose any precious time
away from those slot machines and card tables.
It's really something to write home about to the folks what ain't
working. This is truly the land of booze, black jack and beautiful babes.
But...
You Know Me, Alice.
Lefty.