The day of the first game, as we were sitting in the stands, one of the fathers who had flown in to Las Vegas for the American Legion Regional Championship Games that morning was nice enough to bring copies of the local newspaper from home with him. He brought three copies, one for his family, one for Tighe in the dugout, and one for me.
The newspaper captured a big photo of Tighe in uniform, ball cap slightly askew, smiling brightly. The article featured his pitching, and the interview they did with him was wonderful. At one point in the article, Tighe stated that he owed his success to his Mom. He said I was his best friend, and that I gave him the best advice ever when I said to play to have fun; that when he followed my advice he did well, but when he played just trying to do well, he didn't have fun, and he didn't do as well, either.
That game was a long one. He wasn't supposed to be pitching, but our starter got in big trouble quickly. They brought Tighe in with the bases loaded and already down several runs. He'd be able to tell you how many, but I don't remember. He pitched the rest of the game, even though it went into extra innings. I sat there holding that newspaper for the entire game. I kept rereading the wonderful things they had said about him, and the wonderful things he had said about me. (Actually, I still have that clipping.)
When he finally threw the last pitch, and our team got the victory, I was ready to talk to him, but I had to wait. First there were the reporters flooding the field. Then there was a line of little kids with their baseballs waiting for signatures from these young World Series game winners. Then they had to get their things out of the dugout. Tighe was always the last duck out of the pond, anyway. Finally he came up the steps. He stopped and looked at me. He looked at the newspaper, clutched in my hand. He came up and put his arms around me. He whispered in my ear.
"Don't believe everything you read in the newspaper."