Chapter 3

The Girl kept showing up at, oh, maybe 75% of our home games, and I kept stealing glances over at the box. I noticed that none of the other four girls who sometimes accompanied her were quite as steadfast in their devotion to the Baltimore Orioles as was Patricia Wyman. There were often five girls, often four, sometimes only two or three, but it seemed that, when any of them showed up, Ms. Wyman was among them.

The Orioles had few fans who were as devoted as these. Or maybe I just didn't notice when 50-year-old fat guys and their wives were present for virtually every home game we played.

Once, late in May, we had a rare doubleheader, and between games, after my shower, there was a small segment of time where I wasn't expected to be anywhere else. I showed up back on the playing field earlier than necessary and made a beeline for the girls' third-base box.

"Hi," I began, making my "Hi" a generic one, directed at the entire four-girl group. Four sets of eyes were focused on me, standing there like a stump, trying to get some traction with these Maryland U. softballers.

Finally, one of the girls -- a bulky blonde -- had mercy on me and responded. "Hi, Bob... Two hits in the opener. Are you starting the second game?"

I tried not to beam when I got the opportunity to converse at last. "Yep. They've got a lefthander starting, and Paul likes to give me a shot."

The big blonde knew her stats. "You seem to hit righties almost as well," she observed.

"I've been pretty fortunate," I said, trying to sound modest.

Fortunate, my ass! Hell, I was hitting .332 and leading the league in doubles.

"I understand you women are on the Maryland softball team."

"You must have been here the night we were introduced," the blonde responded wryly.

"When all of you trooped down onto the playing field before the game, I paid attention!" I said, smiling.

"Yes. Samantha said that you asked about Patti."

Oh-oh! Caught already.

I looked at the still-silent Patricia Wyman -- "Patti" -- and confessed. "Yeah, I understood she was a third baseman, like me."

"Yes," Blondie responded dryly. "You third-basemen have to stick together. I figured it was something like that -- why you were so interested."

I blushed a little, and looked, again, at Patricia Wyman, whose expression still gave away nothing. It was like she wasn't listening -- or wasn't there at all.

"Actually," I said, finally, allowing myself to look straight at Patricia Wyman for the entire time, "she's the second-most-beautiful third baseman I've ever seen!"

Well, that got their attention: All of them, even "Patti," seemed to have become interested in what I had to say.

After a pregnant pause, Blondie finally decided to take the bait. "And who was the most beautiful third baseman you've ever seen?" she asked me.

"Why, Brooks Robinson, of course," I said.

It wasn't a bad exit line, and my time for kibitzing with the fans was over, anyway. I took a short toss from our left fielder, Willard Everett, as he emerged from the dugout, and we both took the field for a brief warm-up session before game two.

We won both games from Detroit that long, long afternoon at Camden Yards, and darned if the Maryland contingent didn't sit through the whole thing as if their only ambition in life was to watch baseball doubleheaders, in 90 degree temperatures.

When did these girls practice?

Well. That was a little unfair. Most of our games were played at night, and I imagined that most of their games were played during the day. But the main U. Maryland campus was closer to Washington, D.C. than to Baltimore. It was something of a minor trek, coming up here so frequently for games.

It was intriguing. What was the draw? Was it me? If The Girl, Patricia Wyman -- "Patti" -- was there to watch me play third base, she wasn't giving me any sign of it. I had been watching her a lot more intently than she was watching me.

After that make-up rain date doubleheader with the Tigers, we had a much-needed day off at home before beginning a series with Kansas City. My main plan for the day was to sleep late and go to bed early, but around noon, I had a brainstorm and checked out the University of Maryland website.

Wow! The Atlantic Coast Conference post-season tournament was scheduled to begin on that very day, and it was in College Park, Maryland, home of the Maryland Terps.

I could be down there in an hour. But it wasn't clear who was playing whom. Maybe Maryland's team wouldn't even be scheduled that day. I checked with the sports desk at the Baltimore Sun. They told me the Terps were scheduled to start at approximately 4 p.m., after the conclusion of an earlier game between Clemson and North Carolina State. Maryland would be matched up with Florida State.

I decided to drive down there.

It may have been the Conference Tournament, but it was softball, and a Women's Sports event, so the crowd wasn't that daunting. There were maybe 800 people milling around at Maryland's main softball facility, a handsome little covered field in a big open area of the campus that also housed a variety of other sports venues.

I bought a ticket and found a seat behind the dugout on the third base side of the field. North Carolina State was stomping all over the Clemson Tigers, 6-0 in the 6th.

I was barely in my seat before I ran into somebody I knew: Geneva Price, one of the minority owners of the Baltimore Orioles. Geneva was a big, boisterous, sixty-something lady whose late husband, Carl Price, had been one of the noisy stockholders in the small combine that had purchased the Orioles a few years back. Geneva wasn't active in the operation of the team, but she was a huge fan, never missing a social or charitable event associated with the Club, and she attended many of the games herself.