Chapter 21

We got to Camden Yards only a little late and still hours before game time, but coming there directly from the hospital was disconcerting. For me, the whole day had been feeling a little off. All those hours spent with doctors instead of with Sandy.

Now, I was asking my manager for a day off. That wasn't like me, at all.

Paul Warren, however, didn't raise an eyebrow. He just penciled-in one of the newly called-up guys at DH and mumbled something about getting a look at what the kid could do.

"Jesus, but you're ugly!" Warren told me. "How about, maybe, you sit in the outfield with the relief pitchers, so I don't have to look at you?"

I took batting practice as usual, and felt fairly normal swinging the bat. As always, my hits, even in batting practice, were gentle liners to the outfield alleys. As always, I used batting practice to hone my skills at "placing" batted balls in pre-selected areas of right- and left-centerfield, or down the lines.

Everything seemed normal. My vision, certainly, was normal. But I had no confidence that I could perform in a game situation. The most-recent bean-ball incident had succeeded in once again messing up my mind.

Sandy had decided to come to the game, even though we both knew I probably wouldn't play. After taking my cuts in batting practice, I motioned to her in the stands to come down to the edge of the field to talk to me. By now, Sandy was a familiar figure to the senior usher who guarded the steps that approached the Orioles' dugout. He offered no resistance.

"You were hitting the ball OK, there," Sandy observed.

"Yeah. And, and that's real meaningful, because our batting-practice pitcher is wingin' 'em in there something fierce! He's deceptive! And he must be throwing, oh, at least 70 miles an hour!"

"Sarcasm isn't your strong suit," Sandy said.

"What am I gonna do, Sandy?"

"You're going to punt. For just this one game. If Paul Warren's as bright as I think he is, he won't call on you, even to pinch-hit. Not tonight."

"Then what?"

"Then we're going back to my house, for that two-fer."

"Hmmm. That's the nicest thing anybody's said to me, all day," I said. "But what I really meant was, what am I going to do -- tomorrow?"

"You're gonna be the DH. You're gonna get up, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, with maybe a little soreness in the groin area, but, otherwise, you'll be rested and ready to kick you some Red Sox ass!"

"I think I love you, Sandy."

"You think you love me? When you gonna know for sure?"

I leaned in close to her. After all, there were little kids around. Some of them might think I was a role model. I didn't want to mess with their little minds. "I think I'll know for sure," I said, "when you let your hair grow out red, like God intended."

"I warn you," she said, "I'll look just like that little kid in the Broadway musical -- the one with no eyes."

"'Orphan Annie, ' you mean," I said. "The red-haired waif? You've got it all wrong. It's her dog that's named 'Sandy.' --As I recall, though, the dog does have kinda reddish hair."

"What is it with you and your 'dog' references in connection with me? Anyway, my real hair's not 'kinda reddish, '" Sandy warned me. "It's more like fright-wig red. You might not like it."

"Try me," I said.

Sandy was right. Paul Warren never called on me to pinch hit that night. I sat in the dugout like a lump. The Ottawa kid who took my spot as designated hitter got a double in four trips. We won.

Who needs Captain America?

Back at Sandy's house, we had late, strong coffee, as was our wont. Maybe it would keep us awake. I wasn't sleepy, anyway. I wanted to cuddle. Not just cuddle. I wanted to do filthy things to Sandy's hot little body. But first (and then again, later) I wanted to cuddle.