Georgia Has Something on Her Mind

From the desk of Georgia Frontiere . . .

Dearest Gene and Jackie,

Was it something I said? I know--you didn’t like your seats on the charter. The in-flight movie stunk. Your hot towel wasn’t moist enough. Tell me, I’m at a loss.

One moment, we’re pals, comrades, three of a kind. One for all, and all for owners. I invite you to London for our exhibition game. You accept. That sort of thing.

The next moment . . . foes.

Remember those collusion jokes? I thought I was going to snap a blouse button, I laughed so hard. My favorite was the one about Jack Morris, how it was just coincidence that no team was interested in the winningest pitcher of the ‘80s. I even told Dominic that one in the Big House.

And remember when I explained to you about NFL free agency? How it doesn’t really exist? Remember how happy you were for me?

Now this. Now you won’t let my Rams, my pride and joy, play in Anaheim Stadium Sept. 20. Our home opener, yet. And I had a smart fall outfit all picked out. A snappy Halston, go-go boots . . .

Anyway, according to Dick Beam, my director of operations, you say we’ll ruin the outfield. This, from the team that once allowed Reggie in right.

You say you have suffered in quiet dignity long enough, that the integrity of the playing surface must be ensured. Listen, I don’t know much about baseball, but you two have a few more problems than churned turf. I suppose you sent Gary Pettis to Edmonton because they have better grass? And maybe it’s none of my business, but since when does a team need three designated hitters?

From what I’ve read in the newspaper, you’re worried about divots that could cause trouble for your Angel fielders. How would you know the difference?

I’m sorry. I told myself that I wouldn’t become bitter. I’m sure there’s a truly logical reason why my Rams can’t play their home opener at home. The turf business is a joke, right? I mean, what are we paying groundskeepers for these days? The fellas who take care of our practice fields use machines and modern techniques. What do your people use, hoes?

I could understand your protests if we endangered your precious outfield every week. But we’re talking about one game. One game out of 81.

Let me get this straight: Your Angels have played in the Kingdome, a place where seams poke from the ground and banners and speakers hang from the ceiling. Your Angels have played in the Metrodome, where storms tear open the roof, spewing rain and danger. And now you’re worried about cleat marks?

You have me over a barrel, of course. The lease with the City of Anaheim says your Angels have exclusive rights to the stadium 36 hours before the start of any baseball game. According again to Dick Beam, my director of operations, our Sept. 20 game would allow Anaheim Stadium groundskeepers about 27 hours to prepare the field for your contest against the Chicago White Sox Monday evening. That seems like plenty of time, considering the circumstances. You don’t really expect the games to mean anything at that point, do you?

There I go again. Angry.

I know the NFL is to blame for my troubles. The league should have checked with you and your ultra-efficient assistant, Mike Port. But it didn’t. So sue me.

Put yourself in my place. We’ve already sold the tickets, chosen the hors d’oeuvres for the luxury boxes, told the other team we’d be at Anaheim Stadium. Can you imagine how bad I’ll look if I have to find another place to play?

As for your kind suggestions on alternative sites, thanks for nothing. I’m afraid Eddie West Field doesn’t quite have the seating capacity we were hoping for. Also, the new Target store parking lot off Katella has a bit too hard of a playing surface.

I’d rather remain friends. I mean, we’re above this sort of thing, aren’t we?

In case we’re not, I’ve prepared a short itemized bill from your recent trip to London. According to John Shaw, my crack vice president-finance, you owe us:

$3,498--Studio time for Gene. (Remember when he took out his guitar and insisted he wanted to re-mix “Back in the Saddle Again?”)

$133--Nine Hard Rock Cafe T-shirts.

$18--Five of those water chestnuts with bacon wrapped around them.

$794--Seven dozen bobbie hats.

$121--Three hotel bath towels.

$1.30--A serving of fish and chips.

I’m willing to forget about these little indiscretions. After all, this isn’t the sort of list you want to see with a headline attached. Now how about conveniently forgetting about this silly 36-hour rule?

Who knows, maybe you can join us on another trip. San Francisco is always a romantic port of call. New Orleans is chock-full of frivolity. Washington, D.C., is beautiful in the fall. I’ll even make sure that it’s a Western movie on the plane, that the hot towels have just the right lemon smell. I’ll get you window seats.

Of course, if my Rams are forced to go elsewhere to play our home opener, feel free to join us when we travel to Cleveland.

With love,

Ga.