Chapter 6

I didn't get through to Kelly Joelson on the telephone that day. She was away from her dorm, and the person who answered volunteered that she may have already moved out for the summer. No Kelly meant no Patti, so I soon gave up on the plan to talk to Ms. Wyman by phone.

But well before game time, Patti, along with Kelly Joelson, showed up in their usual box seats, and, after awhile, I noticed that Geneva had joined them there. It looked like the Terps Softball contingent was down to just two young women now. School had just been dismissed for the summer and I figured most of the team was scattered to the four winds.

I was very pleased to see that Patti was still around.

Risking the wrath of Paul Warren or one of his coaches, I drifted over to the wall and greeted my three friends. "Hi, Geneva!" I said. "Thank you for bringing Patti and Kelly around!"

"She's given us season tickets!" Kelly said. "It's good to be related to one of the team owners!"

"Or to be a friend of somebody who's related to a team owner!" Patti added.

"Geneva's my number-one-favorite team owner," I said. Actually, Geneva was the only owner I could remember ever meeting -- except for times I'd spent with the whole team, listening to brief speeches from principal owner Peter Angelos.

I looked over to the dugout to see whether I was getting any attention from Paul. He evidently was occupied with other things, so I leaned back in. "Patti," I said. "I want to thank you for your batting tip. It's really made a big difference!"

"We noticed," Kelly said, before Patti could respond to my words. "You're hitting a ton! You really disfigured those damned Yankees!"

I smiled. "I owe it all to Patti," I said.

Well. Maybe not "all" -- but there was no doubt about it, she'd gotten me out of a horrible slump. I really did owe her -- big-time!

"B.J. would have brought you out of it," Patti said modestly. "You'd have been all right."

"Maybe," I said. "But it wasn't B.J., this time. You're the one who brought me out of it. And I appreciate it!" I did, too. I may be as capable of spouting bullshit as the next guy, but in this instance, I was speaking God's own truth.

Patti could tell I meant it, and she beamed. I got that full-frontal smile again, and felt my knees starting to go. I knew it was time to get as far away from that third-base box as it was possible for a starting third baseman to get. At least, this time, I wasn't sporting an erection. It's really not good to get an erection when you're wearing a cup.

I waved and headed back to the field.

And I thought about Jim Potter for a moment, too.

It wasn't a glory night for me against Oakland that night. I went 0 for 2 with two walks, and my little seven-game hitting streak ended. But, no worries. I still felt strong and competent with that fat bat in my hands, and I didn't feel any cause for alarm.

I was also in second place in the voting for the All-Star team -- a good ways behind the Yankees' 25-million-dollar man, Alex Rodriquez. Maybe I'd get invited to the game as a non-starter. Why not? I was currently fourth in batting average in the American League, and sixth in the league in doubles.

Not bad for a guy in only his second full year in the Majors.

After the game, I signed autographs near the third-base box where Patti and Kelly were still lingering. Geneva, it seemed, had departed. I kept glancing up to see whether Ms. Wyman was still hanging with me. I hoped to get another chance to talk to her.

The kids kept coming -- along with some guys in their fifties and sixties. I patiently signed everything put in front of me, including a couple of Made in China baseballs.

Finally, Patti joined the line of autograph seekers and waited her turn. She whipped out a brand-new softball, of all things, and asked me to sign it for her. I did -- writing my name across the big ball in large, grandiose script.

I signed it "Bobby Crandall." The "Bobby" was a first for me. The last person to call me Bobby -- before Patti Wyman, had been my Mother. I was maybe four years old at the time.

Patti looked at her softball and gave me The Smile again.

Providence was kind to me, and there was only one more autograph-seeker in line behind her. I signed the kid's scorecard and turned back to Patti. "What are you going to do this summer?" I asked.

"I'm already doing it," she said. "I've got a job, here in Baltimore, at the Youth Center."

"Coaching baseball?" I asked, smiling.

"Some sports supervision," she said. "Mostly just watching over a bunch of preschool kids whose parents -- or parent -- have to work."

"Tough work for low pay," I said.

"Yes, but I get credit toward my degree," Patti said. "I'm minoring in Physical Education. I want to be a coach."

"Minoring, huh? What's your major?"

"Mathematics," she said.

"Mathematics! Jeez!" I was impressed. "I barely survived Algebra II," I volunteered.

"They say women aren't as good in math," Patti said. "They also say women can't play baseball. Well, I'm plenty good at math -- and I don't throw like a girl, either!"

I looked for the smile that would remove the slight edge of bitterness that seemed to accompany her remark. There it was. "I'm sure you are good at anything you tackle," I said, meaning every word.

Kelly Joelson was still standing there, watching Patti and me looking at each other. "Well," Kelly finally said, "aren't you going to ask her out on a date?"

"Why don't you go out and see if they're still selling hot dogs," Patti said. "Then maybe he'll ask me."

Kelly made herself scarce, and Patti and I were, for the first time, alone. The big ballpark loomed all around, and there were scattered sounds from departing fans, their voices now echoing in the vast, mostly empty space. "Oakland's last game here, on Wednesday, is an afternoon game," I said. "We could get together that evening."