The star pitcher turned movie producer was strapped unceremoniously into an ambulance and taken to the hospital, where he was forced to take his medicine. And he lived happily ever after.
O
ne fine spring day about ten years ago, I boarded a Greyhound bus in my hometown in the Midwest, and traveled southeast for two days, heading to Florida.
I had an appointment to meet up with the New York Yankees at their spring training camp in Fort Lauderdale, where I would sign a multimillion-dollar contract as their new star pitcher.
Turns out, the Yankees had moved their spring training camp years earlier from Fort Lauderdale to Tampa, some 200 miles away. At any rate, I missed the stop for Fort Lauderdale, so I got off at a different stop and decided to walk to Miami, where my friend Nosson lived.
I walked for five days straight, covering some 125 miles of highway. Finally, someone picked me up and drove me the last 30 miles to Nosson’s house in North Miami Beach.
Create a free account to keep reading.
