The Secret Life Of Rocky Perone

He shook his head but I could tell he wasn't going to quit on it.

Sure enough, the next day I was told to call the front office. In no time at all I knew it was all over for me. No explanations necessary, just a few sheepish questions like, "Say, how old are you, really?" and "Did you really play ball in Australia?"

"Goodby, mate," they said.

I should've been mad but I wasn't. I'd played a professional baseball game. I did what I'd set out to do. Years ago I'd crawled home from St. Pete to my father's house in Maine like a beaten dog, and later to my sister's in California. But not this time. This time I felt fine.

Well, that was five years ago. I'm almost 41 now. I've been over all this with Doc Lister often enough. We still work out a lot, play ball, tennis, run on the beach. He says I haven't aged at all. I agree. I mean, I feel great. I can still run like a deer and my hands are as sure as ever, and everyone knows a man can hit until he goes blind. I really believe I can still play ball with almost any rookie trying to break in.

The fact is, I'm so sure of it that I'm going to try again. Doc Lister agrees with me. We've got a new notion of how to pull it off, and this time I'm not going to get caught.

You'll see.