Outside, Cammy spotted his father and raced over. "Where you going, Daddy?" he asked eagerly.
"To the ball park," Harmon said.
"Oh. O.K." The little boy turned and walked away.
A group of Harmon's teammates live in the same apartment area. They form a car pool and drive to work together. It was Killebrew's day to drive. One of the pool members was Russ Kemmerer, who is possibly a better comic than pitcher. Kemmerer had phoned Elaine while Harmon was out and, speaking in a foreign accent, had pretended to be a hi-fi dealer.
"We vish to install stereophonic equipment in your leeving room," he had said. "Forty-two speakers. No music. Just the sound of ball meeting bat." Elaine had fallen for it, to Kemmerer's delight.
On the trip to the park the passengers gave Killebrew the business.
"My wife was going to come out to the game tonight. Wanted to see the Killer hit one."
"Killer don't hit one any more. He hits two."
"You should have seen Narleski the other night. He was looking pretty good. Then the Killer swishes his bat once. Bam! I've never seen anybody look as sick as Narleski did."
"Yeah, when Killer's up, it's brute strength against brute strength."