Chapter 7: Orlie and Maria

The picnic was scheduled for a weeknight, because the team always had a game to play on weekend nights. As usual, the event was well-attended. Paul Warren had worried, in the first year or two after establishing this little tradition, that players would somehow feel compelled to show up. He always made it as clear as he possibly could to everyone that they could come, or not, as they chose.

Somewhat to his surprise, year after year, virtually everyone he invited showed up. At least, everyone who was married, or had children, or both.

The occasional single guy, like Alex Osborn, sometimes didn't make the party. Paul had been mildly surprised to see Alex drive up, a full half-hour before the appointed time for the arrival of guests.

He was even more surprised when he saw his step-daughter, Maria, alighting from the passenger seat of Alex's car.

Hmmm. Paul didn't know how he should feel about this. On the one hand, Alex Osborn seemed to be a pretty straight shooter. The man had never been a source of trouble for the Orioles or, as far as Paul knew, for any other club for whom he'd worked.

But, jeez, the guy was kind of old to be running around with a kid like Maria! She's just a kid! Eighteen!

OK -- Nineteen. But -- she's just a kid!

Paul's mind was racing, and the fact that Alex was not only too old, but too black, for comfort didn't fail to pass through his mind.

But he didn't say anything, or do anything. He pretended not to have even noticed Alex's and Maria's arrival. They both went into the house, presumably to assist Orlie in her preparations. Well, Orlie would soon know what was up. Paul would let her decide what the right thing was, for them to do.

She's just a kid!

The first batch of steaks and burgers that came off Paul's grill were pretty badly overdone.

"Hey, Mama! You remember Alex."

"Hi, Baby," Orlie said, kissing her daughter on the cheek. "Yes, I remember Alex. Hi, Alex, welcome to our home!"

"Thank you, Orlie. I'm only here to help in the kitchen. I didn't have a date, so Maria took mercy on me and invited me to come with her."

"Uh-huh. I'm sure that's exactly what happened," Orlie said, dryly. "Maria needed more help in the kitchen."

"He wasn't going to come at all," Maria said. "He didn't know anyone to invite."

"C'mon, Alex!" Orlie said, "You're not all that new in town."

"I've gotten a slow start, socially," I confessed. "I've been too preoccupied with making certain I was going to be a permanent resident of Baltimore, before putting down roots."

"So I've got him all to myself!" Maria said.

She was making me blush like a teenager.

"You could do a lot worse," Orlie said to her daughter. "In fact, you have -- several times!"

"Mama!" Maria said. Now it was Maria's turn to blush.

"OK, let's go to work," Orlie said. "Alex, would you carry out all these covered dishes and put them -- right out there -- on that big table?"

It soon was obvious to me that Maria's earlier assurances that Paul would never even notice me at the picnic were pure invention on her part. If Paul hadn't seen us when we arrived, he certainly couldn't miss my presence as I made repeated trips out into the yard, delivering copious quantities of food.

And I figured that Paul would also notice how attentive his one-and-only daughter, Maria, was being. She was following me around like an autograph-seeker on Fan Appreciation Day.

"That fucker is 32 years old!" Paul thought to himself. "And she's -- she's just a kid!" A fleeting, involuntary image passed through Paul's mind. It was the impressive architecture of the Peace Tower -- on Parliament Hill -- in Ottawa, Canada, home of the Triple-A Ottawa Lynx. "I wonder if Alex has ever been to Ottawa," he thought.

The picnic, once again, got lucky on the weather and was a huge success. The softball game -- for the sixth consecutive year -- was won by the children and lost by the parents, proving that sometimes you can, indeed, win them all.

As Maria had predicted, shortly after 9 p.m. the last carload of visiting parents and children trundled down the long driveway away from the Warren acreage and disappeared. The last carload -- except for Maria and me.

After all, we weren't visiting parents. Or children. Well -- maybe Maria was borderline.

Maria kissed Orlie and Paul goodbye and I received an enthusiastic hug from Orlie and a limp handshake from Paul as we walked out to my car. The handshake was notably half-hearted -- like a politician who's had to shake too many voters' hands and doesn't want to get his own squeezed too hard.

Driving back to Baltimore, I shook my head. "You lied about how hidden-away I'd be, on kitchen duty," I said.

Maria laughed at me. "Surely you didn't expect you could avoid Daddy all evening long."

"Well, I hoped I could," I said, smiling, "and stop calling me 'Shirley.'"

When we drove up to Maria's apartment, she invited me inside. "It's not even ten o'clock yet," she said. "You've got a night game tomorrow. You can stay up a little longer."

"Sure, I can," I agreed, "but what about you? Isn't it way past your bedtime?"

"No more ageism, Alex," Maria said, shifting moods on me again without warning. "Come in with me and have a glass of wine."

"Could I have coffee, instead? I had three beers at your folks' house."

"Sure."

Maria put coffee on, directed me to a seat on her couch, and told me she was going to "slip into something more comfortable."