Chapter 6

We got back into town after the six-game road trip and I could hardly wait to call Sandy. I'd started all six games and gotten 26 plate appearances. For the 26 trips, I had two hits, two walks, and was hit by a pitch once. There'd been no obvious cringing at the plate, no bailing out -- I didn't even feel stressed about the pitch that hit me on the left shoulder, even though it missed all the elbow padding and stung like a sonuvabitch.

So I didn't feel spooked at the plate. But -- two hits in six games? That ain't good, Fred. That ain't good at all!

What could this hippie-type chick do for me? Maybe nothing, but I was sure eager to find out. If she wanted me to microwave the family jewels, I was ready to try it if it would help me out of this slump.

Well, I got a damned answering machine at Sandy's place and the frustration levels were going off the charts. The next day was an open date, and I wanted to see Sandy right away. What if she didn't call me back?

I called her again fifteen minutes later and left a second message on her machine. This time, I made it very clear that she should call me back at any hour.

She did. She called me back at 12:25 a.m.

"Didn't go too well on the road, huh?"

"Didn't go well at all."

"Sorry to call you so late. Your message said..."

"You did the right thing. I was still awake, and I was still hoping you'd call back tonight."

"So wadadaya wanna do?" Sandy asked.

"I. Well, I want you to do -- whatever it is you do," I said. "Right away!"

"Tomorrow?"

"Yeah! Tomorrow. --Today, really. Just tell me where to come, and when."

"Come to my place. I don't have an office or anything. It's a house, though. Got my own house." She gave me the address. It was on the north side of Baltimore. The street address sounded familiar, somehow, although I didn't know the city that well.

I slept a little better. For no good reason, I had a little bit of naive faith in this hippie girl. I mean, she wasn't a witch, or something. After all, she'd been recommended by a genuine M.D.

Sandy's house was a shotgun structure, very old, but freshly painted and looking respectable. I think the reason the street address had sounded familiar was that it was in the same neighborhood -- I think the same street -- as Baltimore's old Memorial Stadium, the club's original home ballpark.

No sign of Memorial Stadium now, but I'd been there once -- as a small boy. Small boys don't forget ballparks they've been to -- even the ones that aren't there anymore. A trip to a major league ballpark, when you're a kid? It's something you're not going to forget.

Our meeting was for 10 a.m., and Sandy opened the door to me and invited me in. The front room was a small living room, modestly furnished. The second room, straight back, looked like it was supposed to be a dining room, but there was no furniture -- just some exercise equipment and a big wooden box, on the padded floor, about the size of a coffin, only maybe a little bigger, all around.

"You want some coffee?" Sandy asked.

"Always," I said. She led me on through the house. We had to pass through her bedroom, next, on the way to the final room at the rear -- the kitchen.

"Nice room!" I said. It was. Sandy's kitchen was big, old-fashioned, homey, and comfortable. It was like falling back into the 1940s -- complete with a red and white checkered oilcloth on the kitchen table. All it lacked was a big coal stove. Instead, Sandy had a small-but-modern electric model.

"Sit down." She poured us each a mug of steaming coffee, obviously freshly perked. I sampled it. It was strong and perfect.

She didn't ask me if I minded if she smoked this time. I guess she figured, her house, her rules. Another one of those ugly brown cigarettes appeared and she lit up.

She blew out a cloud of dark smoke through her nostrils and sipped her coffee. "You're gonna think what we're gonna do is pretty stupid," she said.

Well. Maybe I would. Who knew? "What are we going to do?"

"I want you to get into that box, there. In the other room."

"Get -- into it?"

"Yeah."

"Get inside the box."

"Right."

"Why?"

"It's just basic behavioral modification," Sandy said. "Very basic."

We finished the coffee, without rushing, and then went back into the exercise room, or whatever it was, and I looked again at the coffin-like box. "How do I breathe in that thing?" I asked her.

"There's a pipe -- a big, wide pipe, on the side. It lets in plenty of air, but it curves around to keep out the light. It's very dark inside the box."

"So this is like -- one of those, what do you call them? One of those quiet boxes? Like the ones where people soak in water?"