Chapter 2

Yes, I was all business between the lines, but then she started showing up at Orioles' home games, and I started finding it a little bit harder to pay attention on the field.

She was either rich or she knew somebody, because she and her three or four friends -- all of them female, nubile, and athletic-looking -- began to appear almost nightly at Camden Yards. They were the closest fans to my position on the field, and Camden Yards is a pretty intimate little ballpark.

I knew those box seats right on the field were truly

e-x-p-e-n-s-I-v-e. At least one of those four girls -- or her daddy -- had to be rolling in money. And it was unusual to see such a group appearing regularly at the ballpark. Sure, there often would be a group of cute girls who would show up for a "girls' night out" at the ballpark. They would be gigglers, pointing out to each other the players with the cutest butts, or the biggest shoulders.

But this group of girls didn't fit the mold. First of all, they seemed to be serious fans of the game. They paid attention to what was happening on the field. They neglected the hot dogs and beer for what looked like serious discussions among themselves, sometimes accompanied by gestures toward defensive players on the field. I wondered what they were talking about.

I wondered if I ought to be paying more attention to matters on the field. I decided to try to limit my attention to dugout time. From the far end of the dugout, one could stand close to the concrete steps and see into the nearby stands. When I wasn't due up anytime soon, I began to lean out of the dugout and check out the foursome -- or, sometimes, the fivesome -- who were watching the game with such unusual attention.

My closer-up views were somewhat furtive. I didn't want to be caught checking them out. But The Girl -- all of them, really, but especially The Girl -- fascinated me.

I decided that they were jocks -- or jockettes, if that's the appropriate term. All the girls looked trim and firm. They weren't all beautiful, by any means, but they all were in great physical condition, tanned and fit. And The Girl. Oh, Jesus! She looked tanned and fit, and strong and firm. And gorgeous. Just plain gorgeous.

Oh, my! She was a brunette, and usually her hair was pulled back and tied behind her head, but it was lush and heavy and beautiful, even pulled back in that utilitarian style. Her eyes looked sad and beautiful -- reminiscent of the stunning French actress, Emmanuelle Beart -- but her strong body and seemingly considerable height were not quite appropriate for the face's haunting, defenseless look; not quite attuned to the watery, wistful appearance of those eyes.

She was too far away to tell for certain, but I thought those eyes had to be light blue.

Oh, my.

"Crandall! You're up!"

Jesus! I had been seventh in line to bat that inning. Where had I been while we'd scored a run and loaded the bases?

I'd been in those third-base box seats, with The Girl. Man, this was getting serious. People were going to start noticing. My manager, Paul Warren, was going to notice that I didn't have my head in the game.

Paul Warren was a low-key, easygoing guy. But he could turn into Godzilla when a player's attitude called for it. I decided to pay more attention to my job and less attention to The Girl.

So I grounded out weakly to short, ending the inning.

After that, I concentrated hard for the rest of the night, not allowing myself so much as a glance in the direction of the third-base box until the final out of the final inning. We won it, 8-4 and didn't have to come out for the bottom of the ninth. When our first baseman got the final put-out, unassisted, I allowed myself a glance, and there she was -- The Girl -- looking right at me.

I know I blushed furiously. But I didn't look away, and neither did she. One of her friends said something to her, and she answered, but she never looked away.

She won the stare-down. I had to get my ass off the field. There were high-fives to be shared, the routine our guys went through after a victory.

But I stole a few more glances. I caught her eye, one more time, before she and her friends began preparations to leave the ballpark. I tried my most winning smile. I wondered if she would like an autograph. She didn't seem like the autograph type, but, hey, if she wanted, I was ready to sign.

As was my usual practice, I signed autographs -- mostly for kids -- alongside the third-base dugout for as long as people showed up with pens in hand. The Girl and her companions did not linger, however. They filed out with the rest of the crowd, leaving me with the twelve-year-olds and, occasionally, their grandfatherly escorts.

I enjoyed the contact with the fans. I tried to pay attention to what they were saying, to their congratulations for my sixth-inning RBI double.