"Hey," he said. He did not want to talk about the football game. "Have you ever been to Hawk Mountain?"
"No," I said. "I've heard of it."
"I read somewhere that during the fall migration thousands of hawks fly past there. It's in Pennsylvania. That's what I'd like to do when I quit football—take my kids up there and look at the hawks."
"Are your kids keen on birds?" I asked.
"They'd better be," he said firmly. He looked very determined.
"Which one's Irsay?" I asked. "Is he here?"
"The new owner?" Vogel squinted. Bird watcher's eyes, I thought. "He's the one over there—beyond the towels—the florid one. Reddish plumage and beak."
I grinned at Vogel and went over to Irsay. He was staring at the floor. I introduced myself. I had heard he was painfully shy. He shook hands. He has red hair, a big friendly face, red from the cold outside, with a flat nose set upon it. He was wearing a red tie and a red-striped shirt. Vogel was right. He was florid. I told him I was sorry about the Baltimore defeat.
"Let me tell you something," he said, and he gave me a quick look.