Chapter 10

Patti was up and gone -- probably to her own apartment to clean up and dress for the day -- before I woke up the next morning. A ballplayer's life can be a grind, but sleeping late mornings is one of the little compensatory features. I knew I ought to go in and work out, but I didn't absolutely have to. I had no official accountability to anyone until

4 p.m.

I hoped that I'd see Patti at the game that night, but she didn't show, and she didn't call me, either. I left a message on her home phone that afternoon -- before she could be expected to be home from work -- but it went unacknowledged.

I hoped that I hadn't frightened her away permanently.

Maybe, I thought, she'd be at the house when I got home after the game.

She wasn't.

The next night, she was still missing from her box seat near third base, and I was getting concerned. I called her after the game, and got her answering machine. She couldn't come to the phone right now, her recorded voice told me, in the classic ambiguous fashion that's supposed to convince burglars that you're really not away -- you're just too busy to answer the phone.

So I headed home, hoping to find her there, but when I saw that my house was dark, I turned back toward town and went to Patti's apartment.

She wasn't there, either.

So I called her mother.

"Amanda? Is that you? It's Bob Crandall. Yeah. Sorry to call so late. Is Patti there?"

She was there. Amanda went to fetch her, and Patti must have been asleep, or highly reluctant, or maybe down the block having a beer, because I waited for a long, long time.

I could hear a fairly harsh exchange of comments going on between mother and daughter, well away from the phone. I couldn't make out what they were saying, but it sounded as if Amanda was insisting that Patti take my call.

"Hello?"

"Patti."

"Hello, Bob."

"What happened to 'Bobby'?" I asked.

She ignored my question. "I'm staying with my folks for a few days," she said.

"What about work?" I said.

"They've got somebody to stand in for me. The kids are all right."

"Wasn't that an album?"

"What?"

"'The Kids are Alright' -- wasn't that a record album

-- way back?"

"I don't know."

"By The Who."

"Who?"

"The Who! It's an old band. Ask your Dad."

"OK." She sounded listless.

"Patti."

"Yeah?"

"You know my penis?"

"What?"

"My penis... Is your mother listening on the extension?"

"What? No. She's not listening."

"You know my penis?"

"What are you saying?"

"My penis! You've seen it -- right?"

"Bobby. What are you..."

"It's not very big."

"What?"

"My penis! Focus, Patti! My penis! Remember? --The one you took into your mouth!"

"Bobby!"

"Are you sure your mother's not listening?"

"She's not listening. And you're not making any sense!"

"Yes, I am! Listen to me. Patti. My penis."

"Your penis. Alright! --I got it!"

Now I at least had her attention. She was getting sarcastic. "It's not very big," I said again.

"It seemed pretty big to me."

"Well. Thank you. But we both know it's pretty ordinary."

"I haven't seen that many penises," she said.

"Maybe not. But you've seen a couple, at least. Haven't you? You're not going to tell me that's the first penis you ever saw. Are you?"