Chapter 6

Orlie's kisses were as sweet as I had known they would be, and before she threw me out for the night, I'd not only gotten to first base, I'd stolen second! I went back to my ugly apartment a happy minor league manager.

Not long after that, we went on the road for nine games in nine days -- a swing through half of the six-team Western Division of the league. We stayed in bottom-of-the-barrel motels, two men to a room, $38 a pop -- special group rate. When we weren't on the ball field, there was nothing to do but watch television or drink beer -- or, if you were really feeling festive -- both.

But we came home with filthy road uniforms, one more kid who had just lost his virginity a thousand miles from his home state of Wyoming, and seven more wins.

The Baby Birds were in first place!

My road dispatches to the Orioles brass in Baltimore were more detailed and more punchy than the ones I composed at home, when I was always eager to pack up and head for Orlie's place. I waxed eloquent about the exploits of my little band of beardless boys, winning ballgames like they were the Bronx Bombers -- only skinnier.

I had to be careful, though. Just one front office decision in Baltimore to promote one of these kids before the Appalachian League season ended, and our chances of winning the pennant could go into the toilet. The best of these players would move to other clubs -- the faster "A" league clubs or even up to Bowie in Double-A -- early in September after the short season ended here in Bluefield.

Moving up at the end of August would be happy news, for the player, and for me as his manager. Moving up in early July would make only the player happy.

The Three Amigos -- Orlie, Maria and Gloria -- were in the stands for our first game back in Bluefield. We sat through a long rain delay before whupping up on the Kingsport Mets, 7-2. It was 'way late when the game ended. Before heading for the showers, I leaned over the steel fencing and asked Orlie whether she thought it was too late for me to come by the house.

"I haven't seen you for almost two weeks," she said. "If you don't come by the house, I'm getting a lawyer!"

I headed in for a quick shower. It looked like tonight I might get to third base!

Maria was already unconscious when I reached Orlie's house around 11:45. Gloria was absent, too -- gone to Wherever Gloria Goes. We were alone.

I decided I wouldn't file a protest.

"I missed you," I said, presumptuously taking Orlie into my arms and planting a wet one, smack on her lips.

"I noticed," she said, giving my hardening penis a subtle little return grind before pulling away and heading for the refrigerator. "Beer?"

I accepted the Carta Blanca with sincere thanks, and followed her into the living room.

"The season's half over," Orlie observed.

"Yep. Short season, around here. I feel like I just got here."

"I feel that way, too," Orlie said. "And soon, you'll be gone."

"Maybe they'll hire me back again, next year," I said.

"The way you're winning -- the way you're developing these kids, they'll want you to move up," Orlie said.

She knew her baseball. I'd been thinking the same thing. If there were any openings for a manager next year on one of the Oriole's lower farm clubs -- or maybe for a coach in Bowie or Ottawa in the higher classifications -- they'd likely offer me a promotion.

"Where will you go, after the season ends here?" Orlie asked. "Where is your home?"

"I'm a homeless man," I said. "I sold my place in Baltimore just this past month. It wasn't much, but I figured I'd get my price while interest rates were still low. If I ever live in Baltimore again, it'll be because the Orioles hired me for a job with the Big Club. I'll see about buying a house then."

"You're not going to stay in that grubby apartment here, are you?"

"Well, Orlie. That depends."

"On what?"