The Celestial Hell Of The Superfan

"Yes, indeed, Mr. Ford," said the voice on the other end.

"Right," 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 sharply.

"The Ford table," I asked.

"Which of you gentlemen is Mr. Ford?"

"I'm Bill Ford," I said weakly.

"Isn't that 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. Ford?"

Ford merely 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 Frederickson."