“Uh, Warren, that chick from last night,” a teammate said a few moments prior to the snapping of this photograph. The teammate was standing just behind the photographer. The photographer was fiddling with the settings on his camera.
“Which one?” Warren Brusstar said.
He was already in a somewhat brusque, irritable mood. Here he was, the member of a championship team, the 1980 Phillies, maybe the greatest championship team of all time, considering the Phillies’ 97-year title-virginity preceding 1980, and he still had to have his baseball card picture taken in such a remote, inglorious location that the photo would stand as quite likely the only baseball card in history to include so much as a single automobile. In all the many years of baseball cards even the most mundane images had been kept at something of a remove from the everyday existence that most of us slog through. Was not baseball a world away from the world, a bucolic paradise, a sanctuary of growing green? And yet here was Warren Brusstar, World Series champion, standing within sight of not one but two rattling rustbuckets. Where was his verdant baseball card eden? It was unprecedented. It was bullshit.
“You know, heh,” the teammate finally stammered. “The t-tall blonde you, uh, that you took out to the parking lot for a . . . for a few.”
“Oh, yeah,” Warren Brusstar said. His expression began to soften. “I told her I wanted to show her my fine Corinthian leather.”
He started to smile at the memory of what had happened in the backseat of his Chrysler. Unfortunately, the photographer wasn’t quite ready to snap the picture.
“Well, I don’t know how to tell you this,” the teammate said.
“Tell me what?” Warren Brusstar said.
The teammate coughed into his fist. He muttered something inaudible.
“What the hell did you just say?” Warren Brusstar said.
The teammate looked past Warren Brusstar to the station wagon in the distance. He took a deep breath.
“Say cheese,” the photographer said.
“Warren,” the teammate said. “She’s a dude.”