Chapter 20

I stood in at the plate and waited for the pitch. It was high and outside and I let it go by for ball one. Evidently, the Yankees were through trying to intimidate me at the plate by pitching me close.

The next pitch was a slow curve, almost in the dirt and again, well outside by the time it went by. But I had flinched, all the same, when the ball had left the pitcher's grasp. The pitch that had smacked me in the face had brought back the fear.

The next pitch was fat, with nothing on it. It came in waist-high and ripe for the picking.

It went right by me for a called strike, and I had not so much as thought about swinging at it. I called time and took several steps toward our dugout. Warren came out to meet me.

"Paul, I can't see the ball. Take me out."

Actually, I could see the goddamned ball just fine; I just couldn't react to it.

Warren didn't ask me whether I was sure, and he didn't otherwise discuss the implications of my leaving this particular game. He just signaled to Culbertson to get a bat. "Go see the trainer," he told me.

Culbertson inherited my 2-1 count and, I heard later, he hit a long ball deep to center that went farther than any ball I'd ever hit in my life. Unfortunately, center field in Yankee Stadium is as big as all outdoors, and Culbertson's clout was just a long out. We lost the game and left town, still tied with the Yankees.

Just like Joe DiMaggio's, my streak had ended at 56 games. Maybe I could get a contract for a TV commercial for the Mr. Coffee people.

Back in Baltimore for three with the Red Sox, I made a beeline to Sandy's house and arrived there before her own flight back from New York had even landed.

Fortunately, I had recently been awarded my own key to the front door.

Something more than an hour later, Sandy arrived. I had made us coffee, although it was very late, and I should have been thinking about bed -- and sleeping.

Sandy gave me a tender, much-needed hug, murmured something that sounded like "poor baby," and joined me at the table in her big old-fashioned kitchen. For some reason, "poor baby" was a lot more acceptable to me than "that's so sweet!" had been.

"What happened?" she asked. She'd been there. She knew, essentially, what had happened. What she meant was, why did I take myself out of the game?

"I was flinching again," I said.

"Could you see all right?"

"I could see OK. I felt like I was seeing the ball. But it was just like the other time. I was flinching. It was worse than the other time. Because, then, I didn't feel like I was flinching, even if, maybe, I was. This time, I really was. I could feel it myself."

"You're gonna be OK," Sandy said.

"We got ten more games to play. I better be OK."

"You tell Paul you need to sit out tonight's game," she said. "Give yourself a break. Be available to pinch hit, if necessary, but don't start."

"OK. You think I should go back in the box?"

"You don't need to go back in the box," Sandy said. "C'mon, let's go to bed. Then, in the morning, you can get into my box."

"I love your Magic Box," I said.

Sandy kissed me on my swollen right cheek. "Maybe you ought to get that looked at by a doctor," she said.

"Already did. Yankee's doctor examined me before the game was even over."

"What'd he say?"

"Said I'd live."

"Maybe you ought to go see Dr. Connelly tomorrow."

"It's already tomorrow."

"Today, then."

"Let's go to sleep," I said.

"You're not -- like -- too sleepy, are you?" she asked.

"You mean, am I suffering from a concussion, and going to lie down and croak during the night? No. But it's

3 a.m., and I am very, very, tired. Let's go to bed."

We did. I slept on the left side of the bed (usually, I sleep on the right side). I wanted to be able to spoon with Sandy, and wrap my right arm around her and hold her left breast in my hand, without allowing my swollen right cheek to touch the pillow.

The next day, the Yankees caught all kinds of hell in the Baltimore Sun and Washington Post, for their alleged poor sportsmanship in knocking me out of my chance at the 57-game record with bean balls.