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Mullen’s response offered us some hope. He asked several questions about my contract with Montreal and wondered how quickly I could get into playing shape. Richard assured him that I had been pitching regularly with a semipro team since my release. I could pitch that night if the Braves needed me. “All right,” Mullen said, “I’ll discuss Bill’s situation with [Braves manager] Joe Torre and get back to you soon as I have a decision.” They must be slow talkers—twenty years have passed. We are still waiting for Mullen’s call.

Shortly after that conversation, I asked Marvin Miller, the president of the Players’ Association, whether he thought we could sue all twenty-six major-league teams for colluding to exclude me from baseball. Marvin showed great sympathy. He did not offer any encouragement. “If you really want to do that,” he said, “the union will help you as much as possible. But I have to tell you, you won’t win. Collusion is the most difficult thing to prove in a court of law. What evidence do you have to support your claim?”

Evidence? McHale’s ominous parting words. My own gut feeling. The lack of offers. Not good enough. I did know the Expos had spread damaging stories about me and Rodney Scott around the league. One player said he had overheard Montreal scout Eddie Lopat telling some reporters that my arm was shot and I could not pitch anymore. Absurd. I had allowed only one run in my last six innings of work. When I appeared on David Letterman’s show, Yankees pitcher Tommy John told me his general manager had mentioned a rumor regarding Rodney’s alleged homosexuality. Even if the story had foundation, it should not have made any difference. What does sexual preference have to do with ability anyway? But I knew Rodney was straight. He had hit on my wife on at least ten occasions.

After I realized no club would hire me on any terms, it took several weeks to recover from the pain of all that rejection. My mood turned defiant. All right, I thought, screw them. Who needs major-league baseball? It had become nothing but a business, corrupted by greed and run by agents who persuaded the players they represented to sell their skills to the highest bidder. Team loyalty had become arcane. Comradeship no longer mattered. And I had tired of the false glitz and glamour marketers used to sell the game.

The owners had done me a favor chucking me out of their sport; now I could travel the world, searching for the game in its purest form. I made up my mind to play wherever I could find a diamond for any team that needed my talents. Hardball, softball, stickball, Wiffle ball, cricket, pay me in cash, pay me in pelts, pay me not at all—it did not matter. Performing in front of large crowds no longer appealed to me. After spending thirteen years in the major league limelight, I desired anonymity. If you owned a club of Nerfball-playing kangaroos with a home park situated somewhere just beyond the dark side of the moon and you needed someone to fill that last spot on your roster, I would catch the next space shuttle. My left hand, you see, felt incomplete without a baseball gripped between its fingers. I just wanted to stand on a mound again, even one made of plywood in the middle of an ice rink, doing what I do best.

And that is how I came to be starring in a sideshow for the Hockey Legends in the town of Port Hawkesbury on Cape Breton, an island separated by the Strait of Canso from the Nova Scotia mainland on this arctic November night.

Authors’ Note:

This book describes Mr. Lee’s experiences while playing baseball throughout the world from 1982 to 2003. The authors have recorded these events as Mr. Lee remembers them. They have changed the names and identifying details of some of the individuals presented in these pages in order to protect the guilty.

Mr. Lee does not know any innocents.

1

A SEASON UNDER THE INFLUENCE

That chessboard would not stop shape-shifting. I leaned over the bar in the Cul de Sac, a Montreal hangout on lower Crescent Street, trying