Chapter 5: I Just Met a Girl Named Maria

We kept winning all through May, and were in first place on the first of June. We had just arrived in Seattle at the beginning of a nine-games-in-ten-days, three-cities road trip. The Orioles had won four in a row at home before heading west.

All three clubs we'd meet on this run -- Seattle, Oakland and the Angels of Lost Anaheim (or whatever the hell they were calling themselves this year) -- were tough. All three clubs were over .500 for the year and ready to make a try at bringing us back to reality.

We had some doubts of our own. Early-season winning wasn't new for the Orioles. Even farther back, in the years before Paul Warren when the club had been so awful for so long, the Orioles often had given their fans false hope in the early months of the season.

Then they'd drop like a rock, failing badly during the clutch days of August and September.

Since Warren had taken over, the team had become a lot more reliable, but, let's face it, even Warren hadn't gotten them into the World Series yet. Not even once. Playoffs? Yes. American League Championship Series? Yes -- once, three years back. But the World Series? Nope. Not in five years.

Maybe this year.

I was still being used as a spot reliever. Usually, I would come in to face one batter and then, bye-bye. A couple of times, when we were winning big or losing big, Paul would leave me in for an inning, or even two, but more typically, it was Slay the Left-Handed Monster-Hitter and then go back into my cage.

Fortunately, far more often than not, I was getting it done. Paul Warren clearly trusted me to accomplish the limited task I was in there to do. The more frequently I was successful, the greater his trust in me would become.

I was pleased, because it meant I was no longer being called upon to pitch only in the laughers -- the games that were hopelessly lost or already safely tucked away. I was getting exposure in tight spots where what I did really mattered. For the first time in my life, I felt like I was becoming a quality big-league pitcher.

A stalwart. A pillar. A mainstay. Hell, think up your own clichéd word for it.

In the middle of our road trip, in the Coliseum in Oakland, I spotted Maria Warren talking to Paul in the hallway leading from the locker room to the field. She recognized me when I walked by and said "Hi, Alex!"

"Hello, Maria," I said, glancing at Paul before I kept walking.

What was she doing in Oakland? God, she was beautiful!

Remember, I told myself. Remember! She's a beautiful white girl. Worse, the white girl's name is "Warren." --As in Paul Warren, your boss -- Idiot!

I didn't see Maria again until the next series, in Anaheim, and when I saw her there, I asked Paul about it.

"Maria traveling with you on this trip?"

"With me? --No," Paul said. "I hardly even see her from one day to the next. She's traveling with the club, though. She's working with Pete Hampton, the traveling secretary."

The traveling secretary is the person who takes care of logistics for a ball club on the road. This guy does it all -- plane charters, reservations, hotels, meal money, equipment, transportation to and from ball yards -- all of it. It's an exacting, detail-filled job.

"Maria works for the Orioles?"

Paul laughed. "Well, they're not paying her, other than expenses, but she's been helping out, in various capacities with the club, for the past year or so. She's majoring in Sports Management in college, and sort-of interning with the club. She's moving around, learning how a number of different jobs in the organization get done."

"Wow. Great opportunity for her!" I said.

"Yes, she's more fortunate that the average student. It's the American Way, Alex. --You gotta have connections."

"Does she want to become -- what? An agent? A club executive?"

"I think she's wide open on that question," Paul said.

I was hoping Paul might encourage me to go and ask Maria about it myself, if I was curious. He didn't. I guess if he wanted me to talk to Maria, he'd have said so. He probably thought I wasn't suitable company for his very young daughter.

I guess he was probably right, if he was thinking that. I mean, I'm old enough to be Maria's father -- if I'd been a horny, fertile and romantically successful 13-year-old at just the right moment in history!