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THE HIGH-FLYING (WELL, .196) HAWK
Kenneth Harrelson
July 14, 1969
When Ken Harrelson moved his act on to Cleveland, he was careful to include Wendell, the valet who had supervised his vast wardrobe in the Boston pad. In many ways, the Hawk has decided, Cleveland is even grander. On crowded days he is airlifted to work from the roof of the chic Winton Place apartments, where he makes his new home close by Art Model!, owner of the Browns, and Vernon Stouffer, the restaurant and frozen-foods man. At the ball park he has two lockers to accommodate the overflow of custom-made suits, many of which he designed himself. Never one to hide his light—or anything else—under a bushel, Hawk begins on page 59 the story of how he, of all people, arrived on the roof looking like that. Immodest, often vain, certainly controversial, but always interesting, it is incomplete in only one way: there is no mention of how he is hitting in Cleveland .
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July 14, 1969

The High-flying (well, .196) Hawk

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Frank Howard, my room-mate, said, "God, he must really hate your guts, Hawk. He knows how badly you wanted to play today."

When Hodges started me the second game of the season and kept me in almost every day after that, I knew he had benched me Opening Day just to hurt me. Any guy capable of pulling that dirty a trick was not for me. I was fed up with Gil Hodges. I had had all I could take of the man. I was so eager to get out from under him that I told the Washington writers for publication that I wanted to be traded.

Even Hodges didn't want that kind of publicity. In New York he called me into his office and said, "Do you want to play for me?"

"I want to play baseball," I said.

"Why didn't you take batting practice that first day in Washington?" he asked.

"I'll tell you why," I said. "I led the club in hitting and home runs just playing the last couple of weeks of spring training. I had a better spring than anyone else on the club. I should have started Opening Day. When I saw I wasn't going to, I was too disappointed to take batting practice."

"I know you should have started," Hodges said.

"Well, why didn't I?"

"Stottlemyre was pitching. Dick's a lefty and a low-ball hitter."

" Stottlemyre's a great pitcher," I said, "but I've always hit him pretty well—and you know it."

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