Then I said, “He’s okay, men.” Then, of course, we all whipped out our IDs, which showed we were all over twenty-one, and the Texas Rangers turned around and walked out, creaking and jangling. I mean a 20-second check, looking at the photo and then up at him.

He rolled his eyes up into his head in exasperation and very slowly and reluctantly he reached for his wallet, opened it and showed me his badge and identification card. I don’t know what got into me, but I had to say-I had to after that entrance-to these obvious Texas Rangers, “First I’d like to see your identification.” I said it loud. “Let me see your IDs, boys,” one of them says. I wouldn’t have been surprised if one of them said, “All right, draw!” They spotted us ballplayers and sauntered over, all four of them, spurs jangling, boots creaking, all eyes on them. They stopped and looked around and all of a sudden everybody in the place stopped talking. Suddenly, through the swinging doors-Old West fashion-come these four big Texans, ten-gallon hats, boots, spurs, six-shooters holstered at their sides, the works. There were about five or six players having a drink at a table in the middle of this large, well-lit bar, all of us over twenty-one. There’s a huge statue of a Texas Ranger in the terminal and it’s inscribed: “One Riot, One Ranger.” It reminded me of an incident when I was playing baseball in Amarillo.

“On our trip from Atlanta to San Diego we had a stopover in Dallas at Love Field.

Ball four