Mr. Ford," said the voice on the other end.
I said. "We'll be along presently."
We turned up at
La Scala not much later, a group of us, with Nick Pietrosante, the Lion
fullback, John Gordy, the All-League offensive guard, and Bill Quinlan, the
veteran defensive end now with the Redskins—all of us striding up, hungry,
under the little marquee into the restaurant, and as soon as we were in there I
knew something had gone wrong. The owner was waiting for us, eying us
table," I asked.
"Which of you
gentlemen is Mr. Ford?"
Ford," I said weakly.
interesting," the owner said. "Someone wants to meet you." He put
his hand somewhat more firmly than was pleasant on my shoulder and led us to a
corner alcove. "Mr. Ford," he said, "may I present Mr.
grinned, the others taking it up on cue, so it was all right, I suppose. His
party had turned up, just by chance, without making a reservation. Naturally,
they had been given the "Ford" table and, curious, had remarked at the
restaurant's prescience. They were told someone had phoned for reservations.
Their eyebrows went up, and, fat cats, they waited to see who the impostors
were. They have never allowed me to forget the incident. "Hey, Bill,"
they all call out when I see them.
Sure enough, when
I got on the phone from the Summit to announce the first draft choice, Mr. Ford
at the other end said, "Hello, Bill, that you?"
"Absolutely," I said. "Nobody but Bill Ford." I waited for his
chuckling to die down, and then I said: "The Giants just picked Tucker