Chapter 7

I had a ballgame to play, and Alice had her own ballgame to coach, so there was no time for anything except the usual high-fives for her ballplayers before I left in the late innings. "Mind if I call you, later, find out who won?" I asked.

"Sure. And you can tell me who won yours."

"It'll be in all the papers," I said. "And on the ESPN website."

"For some reason, they don't post our scores there," she said.

"So. I'll call and ask. I've got the number -- on your business card."

We beat up on the Twins that night. It was the second of a three-game series at home. After tomorrow's game, the All-Star Break would begin. Weary ballplayers all over both leagues would either take a three-day, much-needed breather, or, if they'd been selected to play in the game, they'd head for Washington. I was pleased to have been selected, and relieved that it was just a 35-mile jaunt down the freeway to the Nation's Capital, instead of -- say -- a flight to San Diego or Seattle.

I would be down there for both days of the festivities, but I would be driving back, after the Monday Night Home Run Derby and after Tuesday night's game, to my own place in Baltimore.

When I called Alice Winslow after our Sunday afternoon game, I decided to invite her to go with me to Washington.

"We won, 8-5," she told me, when I reached her by telephone. It was 8:15 p.m.

"I hope I'm not interrupting anything," I said.

"You won. You hit a homer."

"You watched our game?"

"Turn-about is fair play," she said. "Sure I did. I've always watched a lot of Orioles games, but since I'm now personally acquainted with their star player, I tend to watch much more religiously."

"Religiously, eh? I heard today, from Margaret, that you used to be a nun."

"That's right. How did that come up in the conversation?"

"Oh. I don't know. I guess I was... asking about you."

"Yes. But I haven't been in the Order for -- for four years, almost, now."

"Are you sensitive about... talking about it?"

"Sensitive? No. No, I don't think so. I work in a different hospital now. I don't think that most people there even know about it. Margaret knows me from way back. It's not something I talk about a lot. As you might imagine, it can make for some -- awkwardness -- in conversations."

"Yeah. I feel awkward, just asking you about it. Hey, you probably don't want to do the Life History thing tonight on the phone. I was wondering, though, if you'd like to come down to Washington with me, attend the All-Star game, as my guest?"

"Really? Well. That's -- Tuesday?... Right? Well... yes! Sure. It would be fun!"

"I have to go down there Monday night, too," I told her. "For the home run contest. If you'd like, you could go down with me for that, too."

"You're... driving back here, afterwards?"

"Sure. It's so close, it's not worth another night in a hotel room. I'm going down both nights, for the doings."

"I don't know about both nights," Alice said. "That would be two late-nights in a row. I'd hate myself in the morning. But on game night, yes, please! I'd love to go with you!"

"That's great. The only thing is, you'll probably have to leave work early Tuesday. I've got to be down there long before game time."

"I don't ask for much, down at work," Alice said. "I can give myself the afternoon off. How about picking me up at the hospital?... Any time you say."

We agreed on 2:30 p.m. Tuesday.

I clubbed eight homers in the first round of the home run contest that Monday night in Washington, and got lots of ooohs and ahhhs over one opposite-field blast that cleared the bleachers. Nevertheless, I was quickly eliminated in the second round of the competition. It was Vladimir Guerrero, the Angels' slugger, who helped to eliminate me and who, eventually, won the overall competition. The guy is incredible. Frightening! He and the Cardinals' star, Albert Pujols, ought to be playing in a higher league.

Anyway, I went home happy (and relieved to be uninjured by the surprisingly strenuous task of trying to hit scads of batting-practice homers under pressure). It was very late when I got back to the house, but there was a message on my answering machine from Alice, saying to call, no matter how late I got back. "Uh-oh," I thought, "she's going to cancel out on me for tomorrow."

But when I called her (at 11:40 p.m.) she just congratulated me on my (inadequate) homer-hitting performance and explained that she'd decided to have me pick her up at home Tuesday, instead of at work. "Do you need directions?" she asked.'

"Well, just give me the address," I told her. "I'll get directions on the computer."

"It's not far from the hospital," she said. "We can still leave at the same time, OK?"

"Sure"

"But... if you want, you could come early, and I could make you lunch."

"Fine. When should I show up?

"Is one o'clock too early for you?"

"Not a problem."

Alice's house was a tiny two-bedroom, two-story red brick cottage in a modest neighborhood of very old homes. It was the kind of house that would probably last forever, but wouldn't sell for a high price because the bedrooms were too small and the bathrooms too few. "This was my parents' house," she said. "I grew up here."

I complimented the house and the attractive lunch she'd prepared for us. "I made a lot of food," she said. "I figured you'd miss dinner tonight."

"Lots of food in the clubhouse," I told her, "but this looks sensational. You eat hearty now, too, and after the game, we'll have a late-late dinner on the way back."

Well, I'd complimented the house and the lunch, but what I really wanted to compliment was Alice Winslow. She was dressed casually, as was appropriate for going to a ballgame, but I'd never seen her looking better. I was finding out, for the first time, that she was trim and feminine, despite her height and those swimmer's shoulders. Nobody would ever call Alice "cute," but, man, I was finding out that, tall or not, she wasn't exactly Janet Reno. OK, she wasn't Charlize Theron, either, but way closer to Charlize than to Janet.

I also noticed that, without her pantsuit or the sweatshirts she wore at her Summer League games, Alice Winslow was -- well -- stacked. I guess her breasts weren't large, for a woman with her height and weight, but they looked to be awfully well-formed. Way more than a handful.