Chapter 12: Walking on Eggs

We had the Oakland A's in town for the opening of our home stand that night, and Shiggie Nomura, our ace lefty starter, held them hitless for six full innings.

But in the seventh, Shiggie suddenly lost it and damned if the A's didn't hit him up for back-to-back homers! The bases were empty for both of them, so we were still up 3-2, but there was nobody out, and Paul called the bullpen and got Gene Holtz and me both up-and-throwing real quick.

Shiggie walked the next two hitters, one of them on four pitches, and Oakland's big lefty first baseman, Norm Chadwick, was next up, so when Paul decided it was time to stick a fork in Nomura and went out to get him, I was the one summoned to come in.

Clearly, I was supposed to just get Chadwick out, and then the right-hander, Holtz, would be brought in to pitch to the two righties coming up next.

That big turkey Chadwick hit a ball so far into right field that my stomach came up to my throat -- but it was foul by inches. Or, at least, the first base umpire saw it foul. That was good enough for me, but Oakland's first base coach threw a real hissy-fit about it, almost attacking the umpire.

Such arguments are colorful but they seldom change anything.

Chadwick fouled off two more somewhat-less-prodigious clouts before the count reached 3-2. Now I was fuming, because two of those pitches called "ball" could have just as easily been strikes.

Fucking umpires! (But the one who had called the loud foul had gotten it right -- trust me.)

Anyway, I practically closed my eyes on the next pitch. With nobody out, the two base runners were holding pretty close, waiting for Chadwick to move them around. He smashed one at our veteran third baseman, Melvin Mora, close to the bag and Melvin calmly got the force on the runner and threw to Roberts at second. Roberts made a nice pivot and the throw to first and -- Presto!

Triple play!

It was the first triple play that year in either league, or so I'd read the next day in the Baltimore Sun, and it was the first by the Orioles in the five-year Paul Warren Era.

It didn't hurt my earned run average a damned bit, either.

We scored two more in the bottom of the seventh, making it 5-2, and damned if Paul didn't leave me in to face the two right-hand hitters leading off for Oakland in their eighth! One of them got a double off me, but he died on second and I retired the side without further incident.

I kinda hoped Paul would let me finish the ninth, too, but he just wasn't that kind of a manager. Anyway, I preserved the win for Shiggie and, statistically, got one of those "holds" -- a gimmicky statistical category that the Elias Sports Bureau passes out like Good Conduct Medals.

With all the excitement, the question of whether I was boffing Paul Warren's barely legal daughter just never came up.

Maria and I became the soul of discretion after that. My apartment wasn't a high-risk area, because there weren't any other players living on the premises, and my public image was still pretty much on a par with the guys on the University of Maryland lacrosse team.

A few folks might have had raised eyebrows at seeing a pretty white girl going into the apartment of One of Those People, but Baltimore wasn't Macon, Georgia, and nobody said anything.

But Maria's accountability, her need to show up at work, etc. often put a crimp in our arrangements. We got lucky one weekend when her roommate left town to visit her parents, and I was able to take Roomy's place for the duration. It was easier for Maria, doing her illicit loving in her own digs.

Still, we had taken Orlie's advice to heart, and we worked hard not to expose our relationship to public view. We hid from Maria's friends, her roommate, her co-workers at Camden Yards, and -- most emphatically -- from the players, the coaches, and the manager of the Baltimore Orioles.

"What about the All-Star Break?" I asked Maria. "Couldn't we, like, go away together somewhere?"

The three-day break in the otherwise almost break-free baseball season was coming up. Unless a player was picked for the All-Star Team (which I emphatically was not) he could look forward to a brief but relaxing mid-season vacation.

"We don't have to go away somewhere," Maria said.

"We don't?"

"Nope. Paul is going to go to the game -- officially -- as one of the American League's coaches. And Orlie's going with him!

"San Francisco!" I exclaimed. "Other side of the world from us!"

"Well. Other side of the continent, anyway," she said.

"There's still your roommate to dodge," I said.

"There's your place, though," Maria answered encouragingly. --Or we could go out to my old bedroom in Bowie."