Phil probably wasn't sober as I could smell liquor in the air. He was a Caucasian man with a wart on the apex of his right ear and short brown hair somewhat thinned on top, though that's only apparent when he takes off his baseball cap. His shirt collar was a little frayed but his clothes were clean, and his reading glasses hung from a cord.
He talked about baseball, but it seemed to me he was really talking about life. It was important, he said, to play to win. You had to play your very best to win. And if you didn't win, at least you knew in your heart that you had tried. His voice nearly broke when he said this.
He hates the righteous and the ministers. He hates the people with attitudes and would bury them all if he could. He hates them all because they don't know anything. But Phil knows he is going to hell. He's 57 now and isn't afraid of anyone, and he really doesn't believe there's a place like the brimstone and fire hell, but if there was a place like that he knows he'd go the