from Mike Shropshire's Seasons in Hell:
Up in the pressbox, Bob Short presented me with an offer that I couldn't refuse. He invited me to fly over to Minnesota with him in his private jet, arriving in time to meet and interview David Clyde and hammer out a quick feature. After confirming that this private jet was equipped with a liquor cabinet, I agreed.
On the plane it occurred to me that I had perhaps never seen a man as happy as Bob Short appeared to be on that late afternoon westward journey. "This Clyde . . . you're getting to see . . . is a gift from God," Short was saying. "I mean, beyond what the baseball scouts say. Photogenic. Mature. Articulate. A natural for the media. I mean, he's like a fucking Eagle Scout."
Short's little jet landed in Minneapolis and then we drove over to the Leamington Hotel in a limo. Short also owned the hotel, and when we got there he sprinted directly to the front desk. "Walter," he demanded of the desk clerk. "My young friend David Clyde. Has he checked in yet?"
Walter smiled, nodded and answered, "Why, yes, Mr. Short. You'll find him in the bar."
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