Usually, when Gary Cameron comes looking for me, he has mayhem in his heart.
Gary is a photographer for The Post, and he plays first base for our newsroom softball team. Aged though I am, I play third. That means I make the longest throws that Gary has to see.
I also make the hardest.
I also make the wildest.
For two seasons now, Gary has been black and blue for failure to get his glove in front of his knees or chest or ankles in time to catch my misguided missiles. He keeps pleading with the coach and shortstop, Don Beard, to sentence me to the outfield where I'll cause less trouble. But Beard has been as loyal to me as I've been cruel to Cameron. So Gary suffers in silence. He curses me somewhat less silently.
So it was that, with a mixture of dread and dread, I looked up from the desk the other morning to see Gary slipping into my visitor's chair.
Silently, he reached for the back pocket of his corduroys. What was this? A pistol? A notice that I'd been traded to The Wall Street Journal?
It was a checkbook. Beside "Pay to the Order of," Gary wrote "Children's Hospital." Right under the date, he wrote "$15.00." To me, he said: "Good cause. Happy to help."
With enemies like Cameron, can't I expect more from you, my friends?