I rummaged in my briefcase and found my garage door remote - the garage was empty courtesy of the separation."You can drive into my garage ... we can stay dry that way" I told her as the door opened slowly.I showed her around my unit whilst the storm raged on outside. At the end of the tour we sat together on the large three-seater lounge chair and continued to chat.I got up the courage to ask her "You've been a little sad lately ... can I ask if there is a problem?"She got a little teary but she eventually shared with me the news that she and her boyfriend had split up, and that she was living alone these days. She said that the relationship was over - no hope of any reconciliation with him already having a new girlfriend.We exchanged war stories about our broken relationships.With the storm showing no signs of abating, I asked her to share dinner with me. I had some nice steaks and accompaniments. After initially refusing, I talked her into staying, but she insisted on helping. J. Surhoff, sat down beside me in the dugout before the game and opened up a bottle of berry-flavored water. "Would you do me a favor?" he said."Sure. What you need?" It's Tough Shit," Surhoff said. "He won't listen to me about his hitting."Surhoff was referring to our kid left fielder, T. S. Williams, a second-year player with good skills and a good heart. Everybody called the kid "Tough Shit" because of those initials he tried to get us all to use, in lieu of his name.The kid's parents, evidently in a fit of admiration for the great Red Sox slugger, had given in to their natural advantage of having the last name "Williams" and had named their beloved first-born son "Theodore Samuel Williams" -- exactly the name earlier assigned to the Splendid Splinter himself.I imagined that, if the kid's Daddy had ever thought, even for a minute, that his son would someday actually make it to the Bigs, he'd have exercised better judgment and just named the kid "John," or some such. "Roger.
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