Chapter 7

It was almost 8 p.m. when we finally got to Hagerstown Sunday night. We'd called ahead to explain to Patti's mother that the game had gone 14 innings. "You're going to be so late," her mother said to Patti over the phone. "You'd better have Bob plan to stay over tonight, and go back to Baltimore tomorrow."

"Is there enough room?" I asked Patti when she relayed the message about staying over.

"Sure. We've got a big old house with a guestroom," she said. "You won't have to sleep with the farmer's daughter."

"Too bad," I said, knocking the ash off my imaginary cigar, Groucho-style. "I was hoping for inadequate bedroom resources."

"If we hadn't had the guestroom," Patti laughed, "you'd have been sleeping with two boys, aged 12 and 10."

"Hey, don't knock it!" I said. "If it's good enough for Michael Jackson, who am I to complain?"

Patti's mother met us on the big front porch of the Wyman's two-story white house on the outer edge of Hagerstown. The house reminded me of the farmhouse in "Field of Dreams." There was even a ball field out front -- although it wasn't as elaborate as Kevin Costner's, and there weren't any lights on the field.

"You're Bob Crandall," her mother said, grasping my hand in both of hers. "I'm Amanda. I sent Don out for ice cream. He'll be back in a minute. Come in, Bob! Come meet Patti's brothers!"

The two little boys were playing a video game in the family living room. They politely turned off the sound and dropped their game controllers when we walked in. They looked at me with something like awe in their eyes. I'd seen that look before. It was hero-worship. These boys were fans, and a minor diety had decided to visit them in their home.

"Hi, guys," I said. "I'm Bob Crandall."

They knew that already. "Wow!" the younger boy said.

"This is Don, Jr., Patti said, introducing the older of the two boys. "And this is Craig."

"Wow!" Craig said again.

"I wish I could get that kind of reaction from your daughter," I said to Amanda.

"From what I hear," Patti's mother said, "you're not doing too badly." Her attitude suggested that she wanted me to do very well indeed.

Nothing as comforting as support from your girlfriend's mother.

"Here's Daddy," Patti said as her father walked through the front door. "Daddy -- this is Bob. Bob, my father, Don Wyman."

Don Wyman was a big, tall rangy guy who looked like he ought to be a rancher, or the driver of a big rig. All he needed was an appropriate hat. Actually, as I knew from conversations with Patti, he was a CPA.

"Glad to meet you, sir," I said, taking his big hand.

"Welcome, Bob! We're all huge Oriole fans. We watch you on television all the time. It's a pleasure to have you here!" He shook my hand vigorously, still holding it in his as he turned me, his other hand on my shoulder, and walked me back through the house onto a big sunroom at the rear of the house. The sunroom looked out over a small pond in the backyard. It was a beautiful spot.

"what can I get you to drink, Bob?" he asked.

"A beer would be good, sir."

"Don."

"A beer would be good, Don."

"How about a Sam Adams?"

"Perfect, sir -- uh -- Don."

"Patti?"

"I think I'll just go help Mom get dinner together."

"I'm pleased that you're here," Don Wyman said to me when we were alone in the sunroom. "But I gotta tell you, I'm surprised."

"Surprised?"

"Yep. Patti's had quite a time of it, being a ballplayer and a young woman. I don't know if she told you, but she played some ball herself -- all through high school. Baseball, I mean -- not just softball."

"Yessir. I did hear about that. Not so much from Patti, as from her friends."

"She played third base -- just like you. And she was damned good! She started at third base for her high school varsity -- the boys' varsity, I'm talking."

"She must have been exceptional."

"She was! She could flat-out hit, too! No power, but she made up for it. And she was like a vacuum cleaner out there in the field! I never thought I'd see a girl, could play baseball that well!"

"Kind of a shame she couldn't continue," I said.

"Yeah. Her high school coach was a fucking prince, giving her a chance, like he did. Not one coach in a hundred would have, I can tell you!"

"She seems to enjoy playing softball at Maryland, though," I said. "And I've seen her play -- she's good!"

Don lowered his voice conspiratorially. "The truth is, Bob, I think it's kind of a good thing, she didn't get a shot at playing baseball in college."

"Why's that, sir?"

"I'm not taking anything away from her," he said. "She was a helluva ballplayer -- even against the boys. But part of that, I think, was the tendency girls have to grow up quicker than the boys. She could hold her own in high school, all the way through senior year -- but I noticed she was falling back, a little, as a senior. There were more boys who were becoming men -- in size and strength. It was becoming a greater challenge for Patti, to keep up."

"So you think that, in college..."

"I know it sounds like I'm just some kind of chauvinist pig," Don said, "but the fact is, her ability to keep on competing, with college-level guys. Well. I think it was in some doubt. I think even Patti recognized it."

"Maybe," I said. "But wouldn't it have been nice if somebody had given her a chance to find that out, for sure, for herself?"

"I don't know. --A parent doesn't like to see his kid face that kind of disappointment," Don said. "This way, she can blame it on the system."

"She sure knows her baseball," I said. I told Don the story of how Patti's batting tip had led me out of a deep hitting slump.

He smiled. "Yes, she's smart about the Game, as well as good at playing it," he said. "Did you know she's got a full scholarship at Maryland, to play softball?"

"I'm not surprised," I said.

"I'll tell you what surprises me," Don Wyman said. "Her bringing home a ballplayer to meet the folks!... A third-baseman, yet!"

"That surprises you because of -- her competitiveness?"

"I think she's been a little -- y'know -- bitter about not being allowed to play baseball in college. I thought she might kinda take it out on potential rival players -- that she might come off as a little hostile."

"I haven't seen much sign of that," I said. "She's been a faithful fan, coming to lots of our games at Camden Yards. And she's been warm and pleasant to me -- so far."

"Well. She's never been surly, or a sore loser," Don said. "I guess I shouldn't be surprised to see her showing a little character, as usual."