Excerpts

Juicy Confessions of a Former Baseball Wife Chapter One Mr. Gorgeous At the age of nineteen, when I still knew very little about life and even less about myself, I fell hopelessly in love with the most gorgeous man I had ever seen. It took me the better part of a decade to get over that horrible addiction. I was a college student at the time, strapped for cash, and Cathleen, one of my housemates, told me about Hooters, the national restaurant chain. She worked at the Cleveland branch, and she said the waitresses made very good money. "You're real pretty, and you have real nice breasts," she observed. "You'll do great. " I went in and filled out an application. The manager glanced at the application, took a considerably long look at my breasts, and asked when I could start. I reported for work that same week, a Hooters trainee. I had to learn the names of about one hundred beers, both the ones on tap and in bottles, and I had to familiarize myself with about a dozen house wines. Those first two days were torture. When someone explains something to me in person, verbally, I'm really quick, and I don't need to hear it twice. But when I'm forced to process written information, it's sheer hell. I was a terrible waitress. I was so nervous in my tight little Hooters outfit that I kept messing up my orders. I couldn't even keep my tables straight or tell one set of customers from another, but the men never complained. "That's okay, honey. Don't worry about a thing. Why don't you pull up a chair and tell us about yourself?" On my third day of training, three absolutely gorgeous men walked into the bar. One of them was wearing bright yellow pants and a vibrant red shirt, an outfit that practically screamed for attention. I thought he was the epitome of cool. Then again, that was more than a decade ago, in May 1993, to be specific, back in the days when I was wearing gold-colored shorts and collared Izod shirts, so my own fashion sense left a great deal to be desired. Still, his clothes were the least of it. He was as stunningly handsome a man as I'd ever seen, and he took my breath away. The man in the yellow pants noticed me, too. "Can I sit at one of your tables?" he asked. He was a perfect gentleman about it, soft-spoken and low-key, but I pointed out that my entire section was full. He suggested I borrow a table from one of the other girls, and that's what I did. "There's this guy and his friends who want to sit in my section," I explained to a fellow waitress. "Would you mind?" " This guy ?" she repeated, incredulous. "Don't you know who that is?" "No," I said. "It's Jose Canseco," she said. "Who?" " Jose Canseco ," she repeated. "The baseball player." It still meant nothing to me. I could have told you more than you wanted to know about Metallica or Pink Floyd, but I didn't know anything about professional sports. "He's the forty-forty guy," the bartender said, piping up. "The what?" He explained that the benchmark of a great season, going back one hundred years, had been thirty home runs and thirty stolen bases, and that Canseco had come along in 1988 and raised the bar with forty home runs and forty stolen bases. At that point in time, no other player had matched his record, and it would still be a few years before Barry Bonds reached the same milestone. "That's nice," I said, and I went off to show Jose and his friends to an empty table. I smiled my Hooters smile and asked what I could get them. "How about your phone number?" Jose said, making his eyebrows dance. "We'll see," I said, trying to be a true professional. The guys finally ordered -- sandwiches, no drinks -- and I went to put in their order. When I stopped by the bar to fetch water for the table, the bartender asked me what Jose had said. "Nothing," I replied. "He asked for my phone number." "And you blew him off?" "What was I supposed to do?" He was incredulous. "It's Jose Canseco!" One of the waitresses was standing within earshot, shaking her head from side to side. "You don't want to mess with him," she warned me. "He's a wife beater." I didn't know whether that was true, but I knew she was jealous. All the waitresses were ogling Jose and his two friends, including my housemate Cathleen, but I was getting the attention. When I returned to the table, Jose smiled at me. "So what about that phone number?" he asked. "Aren't you married?" I asked. I didn't know if he was married, but he couldn't very well be a wife beater without a wife, so I simply assumed he was, whether there was any truth to the ugly rumor. "No," he said. "I'm divorced." "Are you sure?" "Yes." "Are you really Jose Canseco?" One of the other players grabbed Jose's hand and showed me a birthmark across the back of it, as if that would somehow confirm his identity. I didn't know who he was, so how was I expected to know he had a birthmark? And it was one butt-ugly birthmark, believe me: a big brown spot about the size of an egg, with fur-like hair growing out of it. It sort of looked like a cockroach. For a moment, I thought about shaving it and drawing little legs along both sides to make it look even more roach-like. "That's very attractive," I said. Jose laughed. "Can I take you to lunch sometime?" "Okay," I said. I didn't think there was any harm in that. I jotted my number on a paper napkin and slid it across the table. "Thanks," he said, pocketing the napkin. "I'll call you later." Juicy Confessions of a Former Baseball Wife . Copyright © by Jessica Canseco. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold. Excerpted from Juicy: Confession of a Former Baseball Wife by Jessica Canseco 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.