Boggs Owed Her More, but Not Anything That Included a Dollar Sign

Orange County’s own Margo Adams is the Other Woman in the Wade Boggs affair, the chick he was seeing between chicken dinners. Phil Donahue invited her onto his daytime kiss-and-tell session the other day, whereupon audience members and telephone callers cross-examined Adams as though she were a cross between Erica Kane, the seductress from the soap operas, and Hester Prynne, who had a Big A long before Orange County ever did.

To some, Adams came across as more of a homewrecker than a heartbreaker. They expressed no sympathy for her having broken up with Boston boyfriend Boggs, seeing as how there already happened to be a Mrs. B and a couple of little Boggses back home. Margo’s quest for financial restitution likewise left some of the Donahuers cold, one of them observing that she seemed to be seeking legal compensation for an illicit act, namely adultery.

To others, Adams cut a sympathetic figure. The Costa Mesa woman did not strike them so much as a chanteuse or floozy than as a human being with human imperfections who simply made--as Boggs himself certainly has, on and off the field--an error. She dated a married man. She loved him, and thought he loved her. She lingered too long, waiting for her lover to make an honest woman out of her. She stuck like glue. She did everything but break into “My Guy” by Mary Wells. Then, one day between clandestine meetings and peekaboo woo, she discovered that her man had been cheating again-- on her.

“I am not a groupie,” Adams said, hoping to clear up this sore point once and for all. Groupies are these diamonds-are-a-girl’s-best-friend bimbos who go for anything in uniform, you see, whereas Adams merely met a guy and got hooked on him, not particularly caring if he played baseball or worked behind the counter at Colonel Sanders. It took more than just being a ballplayer to get to first base with this babe.

Adams spent season after season as the Second Mrs. Boggs, traveling fairly openly with the Red Sox hero, meeting his teammates, sharing his favorite chicken dinners, mingling with other wives and companions, checking into hotels without requiring a room of her own. Discretion was shown, but not much. “We took separate elevators,” she said.

Boggs has admitted the affair, to his wife and to the world. A very private matter has been made very public, now that Adams has demanded a form of palimony, claiming that she neglected her work because Boggs wanted her beside him at any price. Adams said she knocked Boggs out of the box only after finding out that he was, uh, unfaithful to her, but was prepared to let it go at that until Boggs responded to her request for due payment by sending FBI agents to her door, armed with accusations of extortion. So much for subsidized love.

Anyone can see why Adams is having trouble finding allies. Since she should have known better than to have bedded someone who was wedded, there are those who believe she got exactly what was coming to her, and deserves not one thing more. Few seem to understand Adams’ position, and even her grandmother scolds her for interfering with a famous athlete’s career.

Meanwhile, old Wade is in up to his ankles. Hostilities have been reported among teammates. Hecklers loiter outside Fenway Park and shout out, “Is that Margo?” even if Boggs and his wife are side by side. Adams supposedly has possession of photographs and negatives of Red Sox players in compromising positions, allegedly snapped by Boggs on something called “Delta Force” raids to neighboring hotel rooms, fraternity style. “Nobody has seen them and nobody ever will,” Adams said, but then again, this could just represent a defensive strategy on her part, since there have been veiled threats that Boggs’ lawyers will take testimony from other players about Adams’ so-called actual character, if she presses her case.

Oh, what a tangled web. Adams never thought it could come to this, but that’s what happens when you never think. Sometimes you tell yourself to go ahead and act, to trust your feelings, to let tomorrow take care of itself. Then tomorrow comes and people are looking at you as though you have two heads.

I knew a woman once, knew her very well. Nice person. Smart. Sensible. Articulate. Attractive. She was a flight attendant, and closest friend of a person with whom I was involved. Both of them were avid baseball fans, and decided once to take a weekend in the city where their favorite team was playing.

Ballplayers sat in the hotel bar, after a game. The two women spotted them, thought it over, then decided to introduce themselves as a couple of fans from back home. They were invited to sit. Drinks were bought. Conversation was made. A relief pitcher was terribly attentive. He and Sarah (not her real name) hit it off. She asked if he were married. Yes, he said. Drat, she said.

The pitcher said things were lousy at home. His wife still lived in another town, since he had recently been traded. He was glad for the separation, he said. Made him realize how little he missed her. Absence was not making the heart grow fonder. But, there was a child, and he hated the thought of being an absentee daddy.

Sarah listened. She was skeptical. She tried to read between the lines. Her friend cautioned her. Yet, she felt something. She liked everything about him. He was witty, polite, handsome and bright. He was wealthy and held a glamorous job. He wanted to see her socially, but wouldn’t blame her if she refused. He said all the right things. Alarms went off in her head. She resisted, up to a point. Call me, she said, if you’re ever truly available.

He called the next week. He and his wife had officially separated, he said. She wasn’t moving or selling the house. They had talked it over, and it was over. So, now can we have dinner?

Sarah went. She wondered, though, what she could do to be sure. She didn’t have the courage to ask for a phone number so she could call the pitcher’s wife and ask if it were true that he could date. She considered him a catch, and didn’t want to discourage him, but was uncertain of her footing. There was only one thing she could think of to do.

She asked me.

You know him, she said. Talk to him. Ask him what’s up. Find out if he’s being honest with me.

Thanks, I said.

I did know him. I liked him. He was more business acquaintance than friend, but we got along nicely. I didn’t care to betray him, but then again, I didn’t want him stringing along somebody I knew.

I treaded gently. “So, I hear you and Sarah hit it off,” I ventured.

He pulled me aside. “Hey,” he whispered, “I don’t think it’s a good idea if you and I talk about that. Maybe we shouldn’t mix business with pleasure.”

“So much for double-dating,” I said.

Sarah gave it a month. She got involved, against her better judgment. She gambled. She lost. The pitcher did not break her heart, but he sure did chip off a piece.

I feel for Margo Adams. She gambled. She lost. Everybody lost. She is paying for her mistake. But, she shouldn’t be paid for her mistake. If somebody owes you money, don’t get an “I love you.” Get an IOU.