Chapter 11

We lost the Sunday game in Toronto and were back to six games under .500 for the season. My personal batting slump continued, and although

Paul Warren was as inscrutable as always, I thought our hitting coach, B.J. Surhoff, was starting to show signs of concern about having to rely on me for other than occasional bench strength.

I could tell he was casting about for something to say to me that might snap me out of it. If Warren and the coaches knew anything about the blowup with Juniper, they didn't give any sign of it. They were all business on the field -- as I should have been.

I didn't have much doubt that Franklin Jones had heard about it all. Juniper's visit to Toronto hadn't been a secret, and even if she hadn't told her parents when she abruptly returned home, I was sure that Franklin had spoken about it to her mother by now.

But he didn't say anything to me. I was kind of wishing that he would. The way I looked at the situation, Franklin and I should be allies in this campaign to rescue and recapture his stepdaughter.

I was pretty sure that Franklin didn't believe that I had deliberately cheated on Juniper in Minnesota. He, at least, would take my word for such a thing over that of Toby Marr. But then who knows? Franklin hadn't likely heard anything from Toby Marr. Whatever he knew, or thought he knew, had probably come from Juniper -- either directly or through her mother.

For all I knew, Franklin was off somewhere hating my guts at that very moment.

I let Paul Warren know that my plans had changed and that I'd fly with the team to Boston immediately after the final game in the series.

Toby Marr and I had successfully avoided one another since the breakfast incident the previous Friday. Sharing the dugout with him for all three games hadn't made avoiding him easy, but I noticed that Omar Washington had been continuously sitting beside me between innings, evidently serving as a human shield between me and Marr.

That was wise of him, because any kind of blow-up with Marr in the Orioles' dugout would clearly result in one or both of us getting suspended, or, more likely, getting waived out of the league altogether.

Neither of us was exactly indispensable. What was worse, Marr had been performing pretty well lately. I was the one who wasn't producing. The guy might be universally regarded by his teammates as an asshole, but I knew how things worked in this business: An asshole who had things going good on the field was more valuable than a highly regarded teammate who wasn't hitting.

Our open date in Boston -- which was supposed to have been my sightseeing trip around Toronto with Juniper -- I spent instead watching a second-rate movie in a downtown theater.

That evening I invited Omar Washington and Del Stuart, along with my road roomie, Phil Burkowitz, to a steak dinner. I insisted on picking up the tab for the four of us. It was my "thank you" to Washington and Stuart for intervening in the skirmish with Marr, and for quietly continuing to keep the two of us separated for the next three games.

Phil Burkowitz already knew the essential details of what had happened. Back in Toronto the past Friday night, I'd had to explain to him why I'd spent all that time sleeping in our hotel room, when earlier he'd been told not to expect me -- that I'd be spending my nights elsewhere.

"I don't see any sign that Toby's interested in keeping this feud going," Del Stuart said. "Me 'n Omar will keep our eyes open for awhile longer, but I think it's over with ... That is, it's over with if you're gonna stay cool, too, Travis."

"I hate the sonuvabitch," I said, "but I'm going to stay cool. He's not worth a suspension."

"Couple more good starts for this Brumbelow kid," Omar said, "and Toby's going to be heading for the bullpen anyway."

"I don't know, Phil said. "The Baltimore Sun might still be referring to Toby as our number five starter, but there's a couple other guys been shakier than him lately. If anybody gets demoted from the starting five, I think it'll be Ramirez."

"Anyway, whatever happens to Marr, he'll be somewhere around," I said. "You guys can relax. I'm not going to start anything with him. I know how stupid that would be, and anyway, I'm pretty sure if Marr saw me coming, he could whip my ass."

"Yeah, I was thinkin' that myself," Burkowitz said, "but I wasn't going to say it out loud."

"'S funny, ain't it?" Del Stuart said. "You get a real big fucker like Zeke Taylor is, or a big ugly dude like Omar, here, and these guys got the sweetest dispositions in the world. Don't make no trouble for nobody ... Then you get this Toby Marr. You'd think a big old boy like him would be the same way. But no -- the guy's pure poison. Go figure!"

"Guess it's just more proof that size don't matter," Phil Burkowitz said.

"You keep thinking that, needle-dick," Stuart said.

Paul sat me down for the first game at Fenway, telling me it wasn't because I wasn't hitting, but that I just needed a rest like everybody else, and that he wanted the kid they'd brought up as our backup first baseman to get some at-bats.

My need for a "rest" after an open date on the schedule was somewhat dubious, but I didn't make a fuss. So the new kid, named Dick Potter, played first, with Spider going back to right field for the first time since Brennan's injury. Tough Shit Williams moved over to take back his usual spot in left.

Maybe it was the Green Monster behind the left fielder that Paul was concerned about. I hadn't shown much facility for playing that big wall the previous time we'd been in Boston. I just hoped Paul wasn't planning to sit me down for all three games of the series.

If this Potter kid lucked into a couple of base hits, I might be catching splinters in my butt the rest of the week.

I resolved to watch the game with complete attention, leaving my private troubles out of the equation altogether. I wasn't entirely able to keep Juniper out of my thoughts, but the effort proved reasonably successful.

In the eighth inning, Paul called upon me to pinch hit and I singled to bring in our baserunner, Eliot Harper, from second, tying the score.

We later won the game in ten innings. Boston was well ahead of us and in second place in the Division. And they'd messed up our minds the previous week in Baltimore, so it felt good to beat them in their house.

Sure enough, Paul Warren went with the same lineup Wednesday and Thursday nights, and I didn't get into either game.

We flew back home late Thursday, having taken two out of three from the Red Sox. There were signs the Orioles were getting well, and starting to close in on the .500 mark again.

But I was back on the bench, evidently, until further notice, and Josh Brennan's expected date of return to the lineup was rapidly approaching.

The inter-league schedule was about to go into full swing, and we'd be playing six games in seven days at home. We'd start with three against the Pittsburgh Pirates and then, after an open date, play three more against Houston.

First thing Friday morning, I called Juniper at work on her cell. She took the call, found out it was me on the line, and promptly hung up.

So I called Mary Jane at home and moaned and groaned to her about how life was unfair. Managed to get her all depressed, too. I was getting pretty good at that, it seemed. Spreading my little rain cloud wherever I went.

"I'd like to come over, after the game tonight if it's not too late," I said.

"I doubt she'll even be here, Travis," Mary Jane said. "She hasn't been home a single night since she got back from Toronto."

Oh, shit.

"Ask her to call me. Tell her I said please."

"I'll ask her, but I doubt she'll call you."

"This is so stupid!"

"Yeah."

"Okay. Listen, Mary Jane, keep after her -- please, about calling me -- but I'm coming over on Sunday evening anyway. It's an afternoon game, and Monday's an open date. I'm going to try to catch her at home."

"Come for dinner Sunday," she said. "No guarantees Juniper will be here, but you and Franklin and I could talk."

"Okay."

The Pirates had a weak club, and we were playing at home and using the DH, and our regular DH, Omar, was considerably more dangerous than the Pirate's makeshift DH. We won all three games by comfortable margins. The Orioles were now only two games below .500.

We also got the word that Josh Brennan would rejoin the club on June 24 in Chicago and that he was expected to be ready to play on a daily basis.

I started all three games against the Pirates and went three-for-eleven with a couple of walks. It was about what was expected of me. All three hits were singles, but maybe my recent production breakdown was over.

Main thing was, we were winning again.

Early Sunday evening, I parked the Cooper in front of Franklin's house and was pleased to see that Juniper's car was still in the driveway.

Juniper, however, was elsewhere, as I found out when Mary Jane let me in. "She's on a date," she said.

"What's been happening?" I asked her. "You told me she'd been out every night. Is it the same guy? She seeing someone?"

Mary Jane's face fell. "No, it's not the same guy. Sometimes, I don't even know where she goes, she just ... goes. And I've seen two different guys who've brought her home, and who the hell knows whether there are more than two? ... I don't."

"So you're pretty sure she's..."

"I'm pretty sure she's fucking anything that moves, and if I were you, Travis, I'd just go find me somebody else to care about. She's a lost cause."