M Y L I F E A S A D I A M O N D
13
“I do it all, but I’m known as a hitter. Actually,
I’m known as The Hitman.”
“Hank the Hitman.” I tested it out, trying not to
laugh. The last thing I needed was to earn an enemy
my first day out. I had a definite feeling Hank was
making things up as he went along.
“You can call me Slugger,” he said.
“I think I’ll call you Hank,” I said. “I’m Caspar
Cadman. You can call me Caz. You know, like Yaz.”
Yaz was the nickname of Carl Yastrzemski. When
you’re as good as Yaz, you become the answer to a
trivia question. Answer: Legendary left fielder for
Boston Red Sox. Aka “Captain Carl.” Greatness
personified.
“Caz, hand me that baguette.” Hank squinted,
even though the sun was thin and lemonade pale.
“You hungry?” I asked. I wasn’t sure about Hank
yet. Poor J.R. thought I was going to throw the bread
for him, like a stick. A string of drool streamed out
the side of his mouth.
“Just do it,” Hank said.
“That sounds familiar,” I said, but Hank didn’t
laugh. I tossed him the baguette, which was now
coated with dirt. Who brings a baguette to a ball-
park anyway? Ballparks are for hot dogs. What kind
of place was this?
