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He got killed or castrated.
I've been around long enough now that if they see me turn away, they probably know it isn't because I'm scared or intimidated.
We walked in on 17 naked dudes lined up along a wall, getting themselves hard, waiting for their turns to have sex with an attractive white woman.
I was doing that one recent day when a wet, naked body walked into my trance.
The bouncing, wide-eyed ball girl who wanted to write about baseball more than anything was gone, abandoned in increments on football fields, at locker room doors, in editors' offices, and on barstools.
Apparently a guy has to be awfully secure not to be intimidated by my frequent trips into locker rooms as though I'm doing comparative shopping or by my knowing a good bit about sports.
But on top of it being my first foray behind the red door, I was scared because of who I was interviewing:
I had enough natural talent, I felt certain, that with one high heel in the door, I could work my way into a writer's job—maybe even someday cover baseball.
But by then I had gotten to know the sportswriters and broadcasters, and the Star-Telegram offered me a job—in sports—typing in scores and answering the phone.
I was creative and funny, but I just couldn't write, they'd concluded.