Jeff Kent hung my picture above his locker, just the kind of thing that most of us do when we can’t be around our loved ones.
It was still hanging there when I returned, and I was so proud of him, because I was wearing an Angels cap in the picture and it looked like Kent had stayed within the lines while using his crayons to color it blue.
“It was a cut and paste job,” he explained, and although he said a friend did it for him ” remember, we’re supposed to think he has none ” I could just picture Kent sitting at his dining room table, scissors in hand ” fighting off the inclination to cut someone’s head off, before going to work with his glue stick.
The other night Kent hit a home run and then asked for my autograph. Between you and me, I don’t know what took him so long. Shy, I guess.
“I bought this so you’d sign it,” he said, pulling out a Los Angeles Magazine, which included other Times sportswriters trashing Page 2, one of them, who writes about hockey and would have to be considered an expert on such things, calling it a “waste of a space.”
Kent had a big grin on his face when he read the “waste of space” comment, and mentioned it several times before insisting I sign his copy of the magazine, or else. The way brothers sometimes tease each other.
“I’m not going to talk to you again until you do,” he said, throwing me into a panic when I thought of the alternative ” talking to Kenny Lofton again.