Chapter 18

When we left Seattle I had hit safely in 47 consecutive games. If I had been playing in the National League, I'd now hold the League record. Except, the way I played second base, if I'd been playing in the National League, with no DH rule, I'd have probably been a spot pinch-hitter at best. They'd have had me trying to learn to play decent second base in the Arizona Fall League.

The Texas Rangers series was a delight. First of all, the oppressive Texas heat was finally fading a little, here in mid-September, and you could get your mind off how uncomfortable you were, once in awhile. Secondly, I went on a tear -- I got seven consecutive hits over a two-game stretch -- and my average rose up to .414.

The press was finally getting excited. A Dallas sportswriter had paid some nerdy mathematician to calculate how low my average for the rest of the season could go before I'd drop below .400. The guy estimated the number of at bats I'd get over the remaining 17 games of the schedule, and concluded that I could hit a little under .300 the rest of the way and still make it over the .400 hump.

That was comforting, but I wondered what I'd have to hit to reach my true goal of .407 -- one point better than The Splendid Splinter, Ted Williams.

When we headed back to Baltimore, I had hit safely in 50 consecutive games. I was the first guy, other than Joe DiMaggio, to have ever reached that 50-game plateau.

It had been a rewarding road trip. Sandy had been with me for the whole week, and (unlike earlier road trips) she had been entirely happy about being there. Besides, we were lovers now, so it was far more than just moral support she was providing.

Tampa Bay was at Camden Yards for three games and I got one hit in each of the games, meaning I was ahead of the math expert's projections, and I had hit in 53 consecutive games.

The brief home series was over and we were heading to New York for four enormously important games. My streak was just a sidelight now: We were nose-to-nose with the Yankees for the Division championship, with only 14 games left in the season. Eight of the 14 were against those selfsame Yankees, so clearly, everything was up for grabs, and would be, for awhile.

Even I had learned to regard the hitting steak as secondary. Fortunately, however, there was no conflict of interest involved here: My continued hot hitting could only help us to win ballgames.

The four-game series in Yankee Stadium had been sold out for weeks. Yankee fans always were boisterous, endlessly loyal to their guys, and rough on the opposition. I had the impression that they were also extremely pissed that the upstart Orioles, and not their traditional rivals, the Red Sox, were the ones fighting them, this year, for first place.

And they didn't much like it that I was threatening DiMaggio's 56-game streak. In game three of that series, I would tie the record if the Yankee pitching staff hadn't shut me down by that time.

And in the final game of the series, I could actually break Joltin' Joe's record.

A New York sportswriter with a column in the Daily News wrote a bitter tirade about my assault on Joe's record. The story appeared in the paper on the opening day of the series:

During Joshua Brennan's 53-game
streak, he has hit at an impressive
.419 clip. But the stone-fingered
little Orioles' DH has hit one (yes,
one!) triple during that streak. He
has hit no homers -- the guy has
never hit one out, even in batting
practice -- and he has, believe it
or not, hit only eleven doubles in
those 53 games.

Think of it! Numerous multi-
hit games during the streak, but
only a dozen extra-base hits. This
man could not lift Joe DiMaggio's
bat, much less swing it! And lets
don't even think about Joe's glove.

The young man has some skills,
no doubt. He is a magician with a
baseball bat, albeit his swing isn't
so much a cut as a mere gentle nudging
at the baseball as it sails by. Still,
he is the most reliable Punch-and-Judy
batsman the game has seen in years.

But if this little trickster, this
designated hitter, breaks DiMaggio's
record, there ought to be a whole
line of asterisks accompanying his
entry into the record book.

I read the column at lunch on game day, in our Manhattan hotel. Rich Scranton was with me, and had shown me the article. "Not your biggest fan, is he?" Rich remarked. "Guess he wants you to take a dive in tomorrow night's game. That way, you could deliberately fall one short of Holy Joe's record."

"Yeah. You know, if we weren't trying to win the Division, I might be tempted to do that myself." I said. "After all, we Punch-and-Judy guys have no right, besmirching the reputation of The Great One."