Ex-Harvard second baseman Rick Wolff is one of those guys whose life has seen more ups and downs than even he would care to admit.

It all began when the Detroit Tigers drafted Wolff in June of his junior year, even though in two seasons at Harvard he hadn't earned a varsity letter, and had only been at bat a total of six times.

"I played summers in New York," Wolff said yesterday, "and that's where I impressed the pro scouts. At Harvard I was second string behind Vin McCugan (one of the all-time great Crimson second-basemen) who was a year ahead of me."

Wolff received a contract the following fall, inked it, and reported to the Tigers' Lakeland training camp in February of his senior year, still needing a semester to get his diploma.

"People ask me why I did it," Wolfe says, "particularly since I was drafted so low (709 out of 788 to be exact). But I busted my butt to get drafted. Needless to say I was very disappointed with my athletic status at Harvard. I might have been the starting second baseman my senior year, but professional baseball is what I had always wanted to do. So when the contract came I said 'This is my chance and I'm going to take it.' "

That spring and summer Wolff played for the Detroit-affiliated Anderson, South Carolina team in the Class "A" Western Carolina league, before returning to Harvard in September for a semester to earn his magna cum laude in Psychology.

Wolff then reported to Lakeland in February again, only this time he played a season for the Clinton, Iowa Tiger farm club in the Class "A" Midwestern League.

What's a Nice Boy Like You Doing in the Bushes is Wolff's daily chronicle of his two years in the minors. It's one of those nice, easy-to-read, amusing sports biographies that doesn't try to define baseball vis-a-vis life.

"The publishers thought it would be better if I addressed the book to a younger group," Wolff admits, "to kids in high school who might be thinking of going into baseball. It basically tries to be entertaining."

The book is at its best when it describes life in the bushes. Wolff brings us to the eal heartland of America, the small, rural cities and towns that comprise minor leagues. The setting is right out of the 20s, with the ballpark just down the street from the fans' homes and freight trains passing just beyond the outfield fences. He takes us to a simpler, more remote era, when baseball really was the national pastime.

The fans are the major highlights of the book. Everybody in the town identifies with their home team, and everybody has his favorite ballplayer. This closeness between a team and its fans is something that people in a metropolitan major league city might have difficulty understanding.

For example, Wolff tells us that after one of his teammates had had a prodigious night at the plate in whacking a few homers, the crowd passed a hat around the stands and presented their star with $100 after the game--money which they couldn't really afford to give away--to show their appreciation for his feats.

And then there was the time that the Growler had his 79th birthday. The Growler was one of those dyed-in-the-wool ex-ballplayers from the Ty Cobb era who hadn't missed a Clinton home game in 60 years. When his birthday came around, the Clinton management presented him with a cake at home plate between the fourth and fifth innings.

The book also renders a service to minor league ballplayers, raising them to something near heroic stature. We're all used to reading about the Yastrzemskis and Jacksons and the other superstars who have the fat salaries, fancy apartments, and women in every city. But we seldom hear about the 95 per cent of ballplayers who never get to the majors, about the plight of the minor-league ballplayer who lives on $600 per month.

In Wolff's book, we find out about the agonizing marathon bus trips between cities which the ballplayers have to endure, often in sweltering heat.