Disclaimer: Bull Durham belongs to its creators and producers. It is not mine.
Perhaps it would become one of those inevitable things, like the tide or something equally akin to a force of nature; although to be fair a girl does so enjoy cultivating a sense of mystery of the self, but since you’ve asked, I might just as well tell you. Seeing as how you’ve come all this way to see little ole’ me.
The name’s Annie Savoy, a southern gal born and bred among, with the accent still very much prevalent. My parents raised me to not only cultivate but almost to covet the finer things in life, from a glass of wine to the subtly shaded pastel landscapes of the French Impressionists. I don’t rightly know to this day if it was their influence or my taste that gave me a preference for Renoir over Monet or Manet; mainly because I could never quite distinguish between the pair of them.
I was a dutiful daughter, mostly, and I suppose you were looking for something much more risque, being a newspaper reporter and all that. You cover the traveling minor league baseball leagues, well; I dare say; you listen and listen well because I hardly ever speak at length to reporters, I shall certainly never repeat myself for them.
I could walk and talk to a lady before my tenth birthday. And with reading books and reciting poetry, I did not just read it; it was more like devouring them; the music of poets like Walt Whitman, and Y. B Yeats, and Emily Dickinson ran through my head the way blood runs through your veins.
But, you say, when did that love translate into a love of baseball?
You might very well be right in supposing that two would be antithetical to each other, like matter and antimatter. I discovered that whenever I played softball; and I might share with you a side anecdote, that who’s saying that baseball should strictly be the province of the boys?
But I digress, I discovered with each pitch I threw across home plate, regardless of whether it was decreed a strike or a ball: that baseball also possessed its own rhythms, its own rituals; a kind of study all its own.
It would take much longer when I had grown out of girlhood, gone on to college, and discovered other studies, other loves, that I discovered I could mix the two loves, one made up of words and the other one of baseball.
In my freshman year I made the junior varsity, but not as a pitcher, but as a shortstop, and let me tell you, the pressure they put on you is incredible what with maintaining a certain grade point average in order to continue to compete, but I say this with more than a little modicum of pride.
Is it bragging, or it’s merely a fact after all this time that not only maintained my eligibility to play but that I had almost a 4.0 grade average for all for years that I attended college.
That was an accomplishment because I was the first in my family to get a higher education: not to say that my folks were dullards, not by any measure, but it was a monetary one and not any disinclination that prevented them from doing so.
The weird thing was that in that day and age girls who went to college to go into either one of two professional fields, education or nursing. I had the chops for the former, but not the latter. I am mean, really, while nursing is a noble profession, I simply was not cut out for it. And for another, I valued my freedom.’
, Of course, there were the inevitable arguments and lectures and my father laying down the law and saying in a stern voice, “As long as you live in my house, you live under my rules.”
My reaction of course to all this, was “Then I shall have to make my own rules.”
I loved my parents, still do, even though they have by now passed on, and I did back then. However, I was determined to make my own way in the world, despite them.
So, I packed up my things, went home, and informed my folks that I was about to embark on a journey to find myself, which I did with my roommate. We bought a second-hand car and went on a road trip mostly through up the East Coast. That Donna was a doll, a right doll for putting up with Lil’ ole me and my eccentricities even then.
What happened to Donna? Well, I don’t rightly know if I can answer that because we lost touch with each other things happen. When I last heard of her she was doing well, married and with three kids.
I wished her well, sent her a few postcards from my travels. Eventually, much to my astonishment, became caught up in baseball fever.
Why do I content myself with minor leagues when I could bask in the glory of the majors? I don’t rightly know myself. Perhaps it’s the freshness, the newness, like a brand new glove, but it’s that wide-eyed innocence that attracts me something fierce. I like to say that I knew them all, back in the day.
You are probably here because of my notable success, one Crash Davis, and you’d be right.
In him, I found someone who wasn’t just a dumb jock, as the type is so often referred to in both academic and athletic circles. Instead, he was someone who was looking for something more. Oh, don’t get me wrong; there was as much joy in the physical side of things and on the intellectual side.
He was an empty vessel waiting to be filled, but he had a presence, and he had the nerve to challenge me on my level. Perhaps, if things had turned out differently, we might have had something more. However, I think we were both too stubborn for our own good to have the courage to make a go of it.
Annie Savoy, in her own words, and you can take that to the bank.
And that’s all the time I have to devote to this interview, Mr. Everett. So, good day to you. I believe you can find your way out, no?”its creators and producers as do the characters who appear or are mentioned. It is not mine.
"I am just a singer (in a rock and roll band"