Chapter 5

Our next home game didn't relieve my slump, even though I borrowed a fat bat from the kid outfielder, Cary Zane, and used it through all five at-bats. I did get a base on balls, though -- and I noticed that when I held up on a swing, the first-base umpire held out both hands in the "safe" gesture -- meaning I'd successfully avoided a "strike" call.

That, alone, gave me some encouragement. Enough, at least, to try it again the next night.

I went two for five -- a single and a smash double that might have been a three-bagger if I hadn't been spending so much time standing at the plate, admiring the ball's flight into deep right-centerfield.

Hoo-boy! Maybe the slump was over.

It was! We went into Yankee Stadium for the three-game weekend series and I tore things up there pretty good. It's always especially gratifying when you play well against the Yankees, and, boy, was I gratified! I won't bore you with the details, but my fat bat was getting results, big-time. I went 9 for 14 in the series, including two doubles and an opposite-field homer that just managed to plunk into the friendly right-field stands, near the foul line. Not exactly a Ruthian Clout, but, hey, it counted for one run, just like the 550-footers do.

We won all three games, and I couldn't wait to apply the same magic to the Red Sox, just up the road.

We got into Boston leading the American League East by two games -- our first time that season in first place -- and everybody was feeling chipper. I liked playing at Fenway. Some right-handed hitters get all screwed up looking at that left-field wall and trying to plop the ball over it for an easy homer. Not me. I never hit a ball that high in my life, and didn't figure to start now. To me, the left-field wall was just a convenient way to avoid some fly balls from my bat that would otherwise be easy outs. I'd bounced quite a few baseballs off that metal scoreboard, just over what should have been the easy reach of Boston's left fielder.

I didn't stay quite as hot in Boston as I had in New York, but I got at least one hit in all three games, and we won two out of three and retained our hold on first place.

Patti's fat-bat suggestion had me hitting .441 over the eight-game stretch since she'd spoken to me after the Tuesday-night game. I knew that couldn't last, but, boy, there wasn't much doubt that the girl knew whereof she spoke!

Patti Wyman had looked good to me from the first time I'd noticed her in the stands, but now, hey, she looked like my Guardian Angel. And for a ballplayer, maybe the hardest thing in the world to find is a woman to fall in love with who likes baseball. You think that's not important? I know a guy, used to be a teammate, who was absolutely smitten with this little girl he met when he was in Triple-A up in Buffalo. He told me all about her -- his eyes shining. "She loves baseball!" he exclaimed. "She can't get enough of it. She loves watching me play!"

Well, they got married, and they're still together and all, so I guess it wasn't that awful. But he told me later that the "loving baseball" thing had been a total ruse. She'd told him what she knew he wanted to hear, and he bought it, just like that.

Now his ideal woman pays no attention at all to anything remotely related to his career as a ballplayer -- except that paycheck he brings home every two weeks.

She doesn't even notice how disappointed he feels. Man, that's way worse than faking orgasms, as far as I'm concerned!

At least I didn't have to worry about Patti Wyman being a baseball groupie. She played the game herself -- she actually played baseball -- at least when they'd let her. Softball, her game now, was just Imitation Baseball, and I figured she was a little humiliated at being forced to make the switch. But she loved The Game enough to do what was necessary to stay close to it.

And all those turn-ups at Camden Yards! Man, you've gotta love the Game to sit through practically every game we'd played during the second half of May! I found myself hoping she didn't get bored and stop coming. Or that whoever was buying the tickets and furnishing the transportation didn't get tired of carting her up there to see us play.

When we got back home the first thing I did was to get Geneva's phone number from the front office and call her. "Hey, Geneva! It's me. Bob Crandall."

"Hey, boy! Have you come to your senses and realized that what you really need is an Older Woman?"

"I'll have to give that one some more thought," I answered, not too shocked at Geneva's teasing. "Actually, ahh, what I called about was, do you know how I can get in touch with Patti Wyman?"

Geneva laughed. "I don't have her phone number, but I know the dorm she's in. Or I could give you Kelly's number and let you ask her."