So it came as no surprise to me that on the day Tommy came to my door in need of a friend, he looked about 60 when he was only 45 or so. "I guess you heard I've been drinking, Elden?" he said.

"Yes, Tommy, I've heard all the stories," I replied. I didn't have to tell him what stories I meant. I'm certain he knew, and there was no point in rubbing salt into his wounded pride. One tale that made the rounds was that after Tommy lost his stuff and was dropped from the big leagues, he was pitching in the minor leagues for Seattle, and was pitching drunk. He went out to the mound one night, started to wind up, and fell over. He was so drunk he couldn't even stand up.

It was there, in the minor leagues, that Tommy got himself into trouble. A newspaper reported that a man caught Tommy in bed with his wife, took out his gun, and shot at him. Tommy not only lived to tell about it, he went on to marry the woman. That's whom he was married to when he paid us the visit in Birmingham.

Tommy told me that he was cleaning up his act and had a job interview lined up in Toledo. "I need $125 to buy some new clothes and get straightened away," Tommy said. "I'm never going to have another drink."

"That's not going to get you very far, Tommy," I told him. "I'll give you $500, or $1,000. I'll give you whatever you need. Is $125 really enough to get you straightened away?"

"No, that's all I need," he said. I don't know where he came up with that figure, $125, but that was the figure he kept stating.

"OK, Tommy, I'll tell you what," I said. "I want you to sign a note for the $125. If in six months you write me or call me collect and you tell me you haven't had a drink, I'll cancel the note and you can forget about paying me back. If you take a drink with any of this money and I find out about it, you owe me $125 for the rest of your life. I've got this note and I expect you to pay it, because I'm not giving you this money to buy liquor."

"Don't you worry about that one bit. I've had my last drink," he assured me.

A day later, a story in the paper reported that the police found Tommy Bridges passed out on his front lawn. He had cashed the check at a bar on Telegraph Road, about 10 miles from my house. He went out drinking directly after that. I still have that canceled check somewhere among the mementos from my playing career.

I guess it was about another dozen years or so until I saw Tommy again, at an Old-Timers game against the Yankees. Again, he looked like hell, looked a lot older than the rest of us. I didn't say anything about the money and neither did Tommy. It was a sad, sad deal, what happened to Tommy Bridges. He was such a fine gentleman in the years we roomed together.

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