"Earl," I said sympathetically, "you know you don't want me to do that."
"I'm not leaving the field until it's announced over the loudspeaker," he insisted. This was a man who had faked a heart attack on the field. This was a man who had stolen second base and refused to give it back. I knew he wasn't bluffing: He wasn't going to leave the field until that announcement was made.
I was thrilled. I knew I had him. There was no way he wasn't going to get suspended for publicly attacking an umpire's integrity. "O.K., buddy," I told him, "you got it." I called the public-address announcer and told him exactly what Weaver wanted.
"You don't want me to announce that," he said.
"Oh yes I do," I chimed happily. "Oh yes I do."
He still didn't believe I was serious. He announced that the Orioles were playing the game under protest, but he didn't give the reason.
That brought Weaver back onto the field. "What're you doing here?" I asked him. "You're not here anymore. You're gone."
"That's not what I said I wanted," he reminded me.
I tried to be sensible. "Earl, leave it at this. It isn't going to hurt me, but it is going to hurt you."
Announce it, he insisted.