Chapter 14

Unfortunately, "tomorrow night" never came. Alice was called out of town on a family-related emergency. Her closest living relative, an aunt in Humboldt, Tennessee, was critically ill. The aunt was, Alice told me on the telephone, one of the few family members she had left. She had called around noon to tell me she was flying to Memphis immediately and would likely be gone until well after I was back on the road.

Alice was distracted by the event, and I was disappointed, but philosophical. In a way, delaying our next lesson in Basic Sex 101 would likely turn out to be a good thing. Alice would have some extra time to think about it. On the one hand, she was absolutely right: time was a' wasting, and she couldn't stay a virgin forever.

Well, I guess she could. But neither of us wanted her to.

But, thinking about it for another several days -- how many? Nine days? Nine days before I'd be back in Baltimore. That could be a good thing. And I could call her a lot, from on the road. I had her cell number, and she'd given me her aunt's phone number in Tennessee. And she promised to call with any other relevant phone numbers, and to let me know when she arrived back in Baltimore. Whenever she got back, I'd likely still be in Seattle or Oakland or Anaheim, on our swing through the AL West.

Our AL East Division race was turning into a farce. After all those years of either looking up at the Yankees and Sox or, more recently, battling one or both of them down to the final day of the season, we were running away with the Division this year. Paul Warren had a worried look that wouldn't leave his face. I knew what he was worrying about. He was concerned about complacency setting in. It was, after all, a long way to the finish line, and we could still find plenty of ways to screw it up.

But it sure didn't seem likely. For one thing, the club had been almost injury-free for the whole season to date. This kind of good fortune was almost unheard of, and when it happened to a club, it contributed enormously to a successful season.

We had five and a half games on the Red Sox, and the Bronx Bombers were bombing as if they were still owned by CBS, instead of by The Boss. The Yankees' failures weren't Joe Torre's fault, although the writers were starting to suggest that he'd soon have to pay the ultimate price. Torre had been the Yankee manager for an amazingly long time, and had survived hard times before. But he wouldn't make it, this time around. Not finishing third. Not out of the post-season entirely. Actually, it didn't look like either of our usual AL East betters would be in Wild Card contention.

That didn't mean too much, though, with the end-of-season playoffs still in front of us. The White Sox, Detroit, and the Twins were all still going strong in the Central. The AL West was wide open, with no Wild Card contender likely to come from there, either. But somebody, eventually, would win it out there, and no matter how humble the AL West's champ's season won-lost record might be, that club would still get its shot in the post-season.

Those were the kinds of thoughts, I knew, that caused Paul Warren to frown a lot.

Meanwhile, though, everything the Orioles touched was turning to gold. We had two starting pitchers who were on schedule to win twenty games -- Shiggie Nomura, who'd won 17 last year, and his old friend and former roomy, Sam Bailey.

Nomura was a real ace, and one of the strongest fastball pitchers in the League. I really couldn't figure out how Sam Bailey was doing it. The guy threw nothing but junk, but evidently he threw it pretty good, because not too many folks seemed to be able to get good wood on it.

Our righty starter, Tomas Ramirez, acquired in the off-season from the Giants, had also come through, big-time, for the Birds. He had made the adjustment to the new league without any apparent difficulty. Ramirez (along with yours truly) was frequently cited as one of the Orioles' big difference-makers this year. Last year's club had almost gone all the way, and it had been exciting. This year's club was notably stronger, and we were likely to finish the season with the best won-lost record in either league.

A gaudy regular-season record, though, would only serve to make a breakdown in the post-season more humiliating.

But we couldn't think that way. It was destructive. C'mon, Paul, wipe that frown off your face!

So we swept the Mariners, took two of three from Oakland, and finished the western swing with three straight over the Angels. When we flew back to Baltimore-Washington International on Sunday afternoon, it was September 2, we led the Division by seven full games, and our first baseman, Josh Brennan, was hitting .409 on the season! I'd never seen anything like that kid! No power -- but an amazing ability to hit singles into the gap, no matter where a gap showed up on the field. What's more, Brennan wasn't any mere banjo-hitting lead-off man; he could move runners around like a champ! Paul Warren had Brennan batting in the two-hole in front of me, and if we had anybody on second or third, there was a damned good chance Josh would bring them home.

And if he didn't, I would -- or Miggie Tejada, or Bob Crandall, right behind me. We had a team batting average running at a ridiculous .303, and we led the AL in runs scored, doubles, triples, and stolen bases. My season average had "fallen" to .336, but I was second in the league in RBIs and third in homers. If we won the pennant, either I was going to be voted the MVP, or Brennan was. If that kid did manage to hit .400 for the entire season, I was hoping he'd be the one they honored.

And -- oh, yeah -- Tough Shit Williams was hitting .271 (a little better than I had predicted) and had 26 dingers by September first!

It was a loose, happy, self-satisfied group of ballplayers who flew back to Baltimore that night. We'd lose three hours crossing the country west to east, and we'd get in late and find our way home even later. But at least Monday was an off-day. The married guys were going to go home and, no doubt, get laid, no matter how tired they were by the time they got there.