Chapter 11

Well, I did pitch a no-hitter against the White Sox. For the first four innings, anyway. They were twelve up, twelve down, and I was the (temporary) reincarnation of Eddie Lopat. I'd gone through their entire line-up without a scratch, and then mowed down their front three hitters the second time around.

The fifth inning, though, went a little differently. A walk, a bunt single, a run-scoring double, and a passed ball that let in a second run. The passed ball should have been scored as a wild pitch, since my catcher would have had to be a mole to have snagged it.

Anyway, I'd let in two.

Next inning, their third-baseman (the one Amy said I should flummox with consecutive change-ups) was truly flummoxed for the first two pitches -- one of them really was a change-up -- before he took me deep.

When you're the pitcher, you learn not to turn and look when some joker smashes one so hard you know it's heading for outer space. You're supposed to just stand there acting like nothing happened.

Fuck that! I turned and watched the ball sail into the last row of the right-centerfield stands. Folks paid good money to see shots like that. Why should I pretend it didn't happen?

So we're down, 3-zip in the sixth and I fully expected Paul Warren to come out and get me. This is where, in the stories, the pitcher desperately clings to the game ball and says, "Let me stay in, Skip. I know I can get 'em!"

But nobody ever called Paul Warren "Skip," and in my experience, arguing decisions of the manager is even more futile than arguing called strikes with an umpire.

I was gone.

OK, so it wasn't a Triumph of the Spirit. But in today's game, five and a third innings with three earned runs isn't considered really awful. It's the era of small parks, corked bats, steroids and year-round exercise programs. Smashball. We pitchers are just out there to make it all look legit.

Still, it wasn't a no-hitter, was it? I wouldn't be "naming my price" with ol' Ame. Not tonight. Maybe next time. If there was a next time. Word was that the bump on Gene Holtz' noggin was going down, and that I might get one more turn in the rotation before becoming the long reliever again.

It kinda worried me that, when Holtz had gone on the 15-day disabled list, the Birds had brought up a third-string catcher, instead of another pitcher. I mean, it's nice that they put me in the rotation -- but they hadn't called anybody up for my spot. Maybe long relievers were an Endangered Species. Maybe when Holtz got back, they'd send me to Ottawa, and keep the extra catcher. Lots of clubs carried only eleven pitchers. Ten, even.

And our regular starting catcher was slow, and his backup was old -- and slow.

I took the loss. The Orioles came back, a little, and made it close, but we still lost, 4-2.

I was getting lots of firsts this spring. First win in the Bigs, first loss as a starter (not the first loss in the Bigs, unfortunately).

On the way home that afternoon, Amy and Shiggie both consoled me. They were big on how well I'd done for four innings. It was almost like they were saying, "hey, you're a born long reliever!"

But I knew they meant well. Amy could hardly get in all her own words of consolation, because she was so busy telling me all the encouraging things Shiggie was saying. "He says you'd dominate in Japan," she said, giving it every bit as much emphasis as Shiggie's fervent tones suggested was appropriate.

She was in the back seat of the Escape, out of her seat belt and petting and patting on me all the way home.

Hmmm. Maybe I could try The Hangdog Approach. Make her feel so sorry for Poor Old Sam that she'd give me a sympathy lay.

Only, I didn't want a mercy fuck. I wanted Amy -- heart, and soul and -- and the other stuff, too.

Lower! Lower!

So I tried to stop feeling sorry for myself, and focus instead on how Life Goes On. Paul Warren hadn't condemned me to Eternal Darkness. He'd just pulled me with one out in the sixth, trailing 3-0. I'd have done the same thing, if I were the manager and he was the kid pitcher pretending to be ready for the major leagues.

"Want some tea?" Amy said.

I'd been so sorry for myself that I'd forgotten Amy's promise that we'd resume The Conversation after today's game. I guess I'd been focused too much on the "name your price" part. I mean, we'd both been all-too aware that I wasn't going to pitch a complete game no-hitter. And I'd also been aware that the "name your price" thing was just rhetoric, and Amy wasn't going to turn over control of her body just because I accomplished something unlikely on the field of play.

Unlikely? How about fucking impossible? She'd never had said those words if she'd thought there was any way in Hell it was going to happen.

But I'd had some nice daydreams about coming back to the house with my no-hitter (after hours of talking to the press in the locker room) and saying to Amy, "All right, woman: On your knees!"

I gotta stop here and tell you that the "on your knees" imagery isn't really where I'm at, with regard to ol' Ame. I mean, sure, I've had the usual blowjob fantasies. Maybe daily.

All right, maybe hourly.

And, sure, I hoped that, when and if we ever did actually get together, it would turn out that Amy was one of those Ideal Women -- sweet and wholesome and even a tad prim on the outside, but a seething cauldron of insatiable passion in the bedroom, or out in the yard behind the nearest tree, or in the stockroom of the PayLess Shoe Store at the Mall.

I'm not saying my imagination hasn't run wild, with every possible conjunction of male and female body parts known to the Kama Sutra. I'd spent a lot of time fantasizing about all sorts of filthy acts, performed with Ame.