Chapter 9

Some pitchers are better at baffling particular hitters than others. On the other hand, sometimes a very ordinary, .245-hitting reserve infielder is, for reasons unknown to Man, able to hit the league's premier pitcher like he owned him.

Match ups are part of the fun of the game. I was looking forward to the next game in the series against the Royals, because they had Alphonso Cardenez scheduled to pitch, and I owned the guy.

Cardenez was a damned good pitcher. You had to be good to win more games than you lose, pitching for the Royals. But against me, he was meat. I had hit him in April in our earlier series with Kansas City. I had hit him when we were both in the minors. He was my cousin. I knew it. He knew it.

Meat.

Only, Cardenez pitched a complete game, beating us

4-1, and I had a walk and zero hits for the night.

Something was terribly, terribly wrong.

"Hi, you've reached the number you just dialed. You know what to do, after it goes beep."

"Sandy? You there? Pick up, please."

"What is it, Slug?"

"Did I wake you?"

"What is it, Slug?"

"I took another collar tonight. Against Cardenez!"

"So? Cardenez is pretty good."

"Not against me. He's my cousin, Sandy! I've always beat him like a drum!"

"Hey, c'mon! It's a complicated game. You win some, you lose some, and once in awhile, you get rained out."

"Sandy, something is still wrong! I'm not flinching. Hell, I didn't even think about getting hit by a pitch. I was wide-awake up there and all set to feast on this guy. I always feast on this guy!"

"You've only been in the league for a couple months."

"I played against him in the minors -- regularly. And I hit him last month, in KC."

"Like I said, you win some, you..."

"Sandy! You see what's happening here? Damn it, you've gotta help me outta this!"

"You want to go back into the box?"

"I will -- if you tell me to. But I don't think that's it. I think it's you."

"Me? What'd I do?"

"You didn't do anything. I'm not saying -- I don't mean it's your fault I can't hit. But, look what's been happening!"

"What?"

"When you come to the game, I hit like a sonuvabitch! When you're not here, I get my ass kicked by pitchers I used to own!"

"Oh, c'mon, now Slug! That's nothing but superstition! You're talking crazy now!"

"OK, so it's superstition. Who gives a Fat One? If having you around makes me a better hitter, we've gotta arrange it so I have you around!"

"Oh, yeah, right. So I get to spend all my nights and weekends at Camden Yards, watching ballgames. Just what I've always wanted -- a season ticket!"

"I realize it's a big inconvenience, Sandy, honest! I'll pay you! It'll be like an extension of your therapy."

"It would be more like aiding and abetting you in your self-indulgent, self-destructive dependency. I'd be your enabler!"

"Damn, you sound just like a real live psychologist!"

"Well, I may be a quack, but I know a little something about this racket. And speaking of psychologists, I'm recommending you start seeing one, right away. Maybe two."

"Sandy. I don't need no fucking psychologist. I need for you to come to the games."

"What happens when you go on the road? You've gotta hit on the road, too, y'know."

"We've got six more games here. Just come to those games for me -- please?"

"This is sick."

"Sandy. Please!"

"Let's talk about it in the morning. Call me in the morning. After 10:30. I've gotta write my column."

"OK. But think on it. I've gotta have you there, tomorrow night."

Sandy's "column" was an advice column, published on the Internet, for which she received a modest payment from a computer-based "magazine" publisher. The column was one of several computer-related activities Sandy engaged in to augment her living. She was apparently a kind of professional Mother Confessor, guru, oracle and Font of Wisdom.