Call Me "Tolerated" I was early, obviously. Through the open ballroom doors, I could see a handful of men seated at round banquet tables covered with starched white cloths. I consulted my watch again. 6:03 p.m. I had checked into the hotel maybe an hour before and, after dropping off my suitcase in my room, rode the elevator down to the second floor to pick up my credentials. There had been a bit of a fuss when I had phoned a week earlier to request them. The man I spoke to had put me on hold, presumably to consult a higher authority, then finally came back on the line and said, "hell, why not?" Even so, I worried they might give me a hard time when I showed up. I was wrong. I was handed my credentials for the All-Star Game and told, with a chuckle, "Well, this is a first." The man then gave me a goody bag. I carried it to the lobby and sat down, hoping to see a familiar face, someone I could have dinner with. The thought of eating a room-service meal by myself was depressing. I opened the goody bag and began pawing through it. The contents made me smile. A Gillette razor, a pack of razor blades, a tie-pin, men's deodorant, a pen and . . . wait, what was this? A square, sealed envelope. I tore it open. Inside, was an invitation to a dinner that evening for sportswriters and the baseball players selected for the game to be played the next night. Salvation! No room-service meal after all, I thought I re-read the invitation. The dinner was called for 6 p.m. I checked my watch. It was 5:45. I hurried back to my room and grabbed a reporter's notebook. This would be fun! I could chat with other sportswriters, meet some ballplayers and maybe extract a colorful quote or two. Pausing in front of the mirror, I ran a comb through my long, dark hair, applied pink lipstick and studied the navy cotton dress I had on; it was wrinkled, but it would have to do. Now, as I was about to step into the ballroom, a man standing off to the left quickly intercepted me. He gave me an unwelcome look. "This is a private dinner," he announced. "Sorry." I pasted on my best smile. "This is the Baseball Writers' dinner, right?" "Yes. Obviously, you have the wrong ballroom." "No, I have the right ballroom." I made a move to enter. He moved with me. "I can't allow you in." I put away my smile and pulled the invitation from my purse. "I'm invited." He barely glanced at the invitation. "Clearly, there's been a mistake. This dinner is stag. Women are not allowed." "I'm allowed. I'm a writer with The National Observer . I'm here for the All-Star Game and this invitation was given to me. " "It shouldn't have been." Excerpted from A Farewell to Arms, Legs, and Jockstraps: A Sportswriter's Memoir by Diane K. Shah All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
