Chapter 3

I didn't see any more of Nolan Ryan O'Conner or his sweet little mama during our long home stand, but all three of us guys got nice thank you cards from Maureen O'Conner, addressed to us "c/o Camden Yards" and finding their way to us there without any evident difficulty.

She sent us each a wallet-size snapshot of Nolan, wearing a baseball uniform and looking somewhat older than he now appeared.

In the picture, the kid had a lot of shaggy, dark hair with reddish tints to it. If he hadn't written "Nolan Ryan" across the "Orioles" logo on his chest, I'd have never recognized him. That's what he'd written -- "Nolan Ryan" -- he'd left off the "O'Conner."

The picture made me feel bad, a little. It had to have been taken a long time ago. Six, seven months, anyhow. But Nolan looked a lot older in the picture. Bigger. The cancer was shrinking him, making the little boy look like a little bird, freshly hatched.

There was a handwritten note with my card:

Todd:

It was great of you to come back

to the hospital with Zeke Taylor

and Bob Crandall -- and all that

gear! Nolan couldn't get over it

for days. You guys are all he

talks about -- you three and Jon

Lester, the Boston player you told

him about. I've had to do a lot of

research about this Lester fellow,

I'll tell you!

Nolan's supposed to be released from

the hospital in a couple more weeks,

although they keep telling me it

doesn't mean anything. It doesn't mean

he's better or worse -- just that the

current stage of his treatment is

going to be completed, and he can go

home for awhile. We already know when

he'll be due to come back.

Please tell the other players how

much it meant to him to meet them. I

know they have good hearts, but it's

hard to believe they can understand

what a good thing they've done, so try to make sure they know.

Maureen O'Conner

I checked in with Bob and Streak, and they both had received cards and the picture of Nolan in his Orioles uniform. Streak had to first sort through a huge pile of incoming fan mail to locate his so he could give it a look. Both the guys perked up about the cards they got.

I noticed both of them looking at Nolan's picture for a good while.

Maureen had written short notes on their cards, but it was evident that they weren't as detailed as the one she'd sent me, so I told them what she'd said.

"He'll be getting out of the hospital close to the time we get back from the west coast," Bob Crandall said. "We ought to call his mom, invite him out to a game in August."

"That's a terrific idea," I said. "Why don't you call him, Bob? You're his fellow third baseman."

"You call," Crandall said. "You're the one who found him. And his mother sent you the note."

"Actually, he found me," I told him.

I had mixed feelings about my "special" note from Maureen O'Conner. She had singled me out as lead-Oriole in the Nolan Ryan Fan Club, whereas I had the feeling that Zeke and Bob Crandall had contributed just about as much time and energy to the little project as I had.

Additionally, I had a mild case of the guilts because of my secret feelings for Ms. O'Conner. My interest in Nolan was certainly genuine enough, but I knew in my heart of hearts that his having a tiny, cuddly, red-haired mother with green Irish eyes didn't hurt a bit.

What kind of a guy lets those kinds of feelings intrude on what ought to be pure empathy for a sick little boy?

But then I gave myself a break. Any man would find Maureen attractive. The important thing wasn't what you were thinking, it was what you did about it. I resolved that I was going to do nothing whatsoever about it.

Widows with sick kids weren't my style. Be nice to the boy, be polite and respectful to his mother.

Just be a grownup, Todd! You're thirty-one years old. Is that really too much to ask?

My ankle injury was entirely healed, and when I went back onto the active roster, the Orioles sent the Wunderkind, Hopalong (or whatever his name was) Cassidy, back down to Bowie.

Cassidy wasn't happy about it, and I knew how he felt. I caught so many dirty looks from the kid on his final afternoon with the club that I was almost tempted to say something snide and inappropriate.

Clearly, Cassidy thought the Oriole brass had to be suffering from some kind of collective delusion if they preferred reactivating a never-was like me over retaining a surefire future star like him on the big league roster.

Just in time, I remembered the bitterness I'd felt when similar events had affected me in the past, and I said nothing. There was no need for me to feel sorry for Cassidy. He'd be back, and he'd be around long after I was just a couple of lines in the Baseball Encyclopedia.

As soon as Paul Warren had assured himself that the doctors and the trainers knew whereof they spoke and that I was good to go, he let me play. I started three games in a row in Boston, taking a turn at third, shortstop, and second on consecutive days. It was a highly unusual scenario, even for a utility infielder, and I don't mind telling you it was something of a challenge for me.

I mean sure, I can handle all three positions competently, but playing musical positions on consecutive days was a little daunting. I knew that it reflected a high degree of trust in me on Paul Warren's part, because if I screwed up unduly on defense, it was the kind of move that could bring him some harsh criticism in the press.

Actually, I did commit an error at shortstop in game two of the series, but it was a tough chance. Some scorers, I thought, wouldn't have even called it an error.

In any event, Paul never batted an eye.

I hit ninth in the order in all three contests, managed a single in each of the three games, and drew two walks. My average for the year was up to .257. I felt like I was pretty much holding up my end when called upon.

We won six games out of nine in a long trip through Toronto, Boston, and New York, with one rainout in Boston that would have to be made up in mid-September during our final trip there.

The Orioles were in first place, two games ahead of the Red Sox. The Yankees were in fourth place and a game behind the Rays. It was the farthest down in the standings that New York had been this late in the season in the past eleven years, according to an irate sportswriter for the Daily News.

It wasn't the Yankees' worst won-lost record in eleven years. It was just their lowest position in the AL East standings. The Division was overrun with strong clubs, and everyone -- even, to an extent, the last-place Blue Jays -- was beating up on clubs in the other two divisions and had won most of their inter-league games.

The good news was, the inflated winning percentages in the AL East made it almost a certainty that the League's Wild Card club in the postseason would come from our Division, the AL East.

It meant we'd probably have two shots at the brass ring this year. Still, winning it all would be a lot more satisfying than just getting in with the wild card.

I called Maureen O'Conner at her home number the Wednesday night we got back into Baltimore after the road trip. It was around 8:30 p.m. and a man answered the phone.

It was her father. "Maureen's still at the hospital," he said, "or maybe on her way back here. I could have her call you."

"How's the little guy doing?" I asked him.

"Not much change," he said. "But he's scheduled to come home this week. It's Friday, tentatively."

"Yeah, I heard he was going to get out soon. Didn't know exactly when."

"You're the ballplayer, right? Dushay?"

"Yes sir."

"Man, that boy talks about you all the time. You and Bob Crandall, but mostly you ... And that Boston pitcher guy."

"Jon Lester."

"Yeah. Hey! You got a hit off Lester up in Fenway!" the man said.

"Yes sir. I wasn't exactly the only one. We lit him up pretty good."

"You sure did! I listened to the game on the radio at the hospital with Nolan. Kid was rooting for the Orioles, but I could tell he kinda wanted Lester to do good, too. Had himself kind of a conflict going, there!"

I laughed. "Listen, Mister ... ahh, I'm sorry, sir, I don't know your name."

"It's Terry," he said. "Patrick Terry. I'm Nolan's grandfather."

"Yes, sir. Maureen mentioned that she and Nolan were living at your house. Uh, Mr. Terry, do you think Nolan's going to be in good enough shape he could maybe come to a game?"

"I think it would do him a world of good. I know it would be the thrill of a lifetime for the boy."

"Well, sir, we could sure arrange it. All of you. You and Mrs. Terry and Maureen and Nolan. Anybody you want to bring along, too. If you like, I could get him into a luxury box for the game. Or close to the dugout, if you think he'd like that better."

"Oh, Mr. Dushay, close to the field would be far better. The boy talks about you men as if you were Gods. Seeing you up close on the field of play, oh, that would move him, I can tell you!"

"Just pick a day, Mr. Terry, and..."

"Patrick. Call me Patrick."

"Just pick a day, Patrick, and I'll see to it. Tickets. Doesn't have to be just the four. I have friends in high places."

"Aw, now, it's got to be difficult to get seats close to the Orioles' dugout, even for a man of your stature," he said, making me wonder how much he knew about my stature.

"Friends," I repeated. "I'll put Zeke Taylor to work on it. Paul Warren, if need be."

"The Red Sox are coming," Patrick Terry said, his phrasing bringing to my mind an image of Paul Revere galloping through Boston's North End. "Wouldn't it be something if you could get the boy tickets to a game Jon Lester would be starting for Boston?"

"Well, they're going to be here for the weekend, for three," I said. "I'll have to see if Lester is scheduled to start one of those, and even if he is, there'd be no guarantee by game day that he'd be the starter. But we can try for it. You shouldn't make any promises to Nolan along those lines."

"I'm not sure I'll tell him anything about the outing at all," Patrick Terry said. "At least not until perhaps the morning of the big day. The poor lad might burst from the excitement!"

I promised to call back with more information about tickets and the right choice of game in the Red Sox series. "There's no danger, is there, that his mother won't want him to do this?"

"None," Patrick said. "None! She wants the boy to get as much out of his life as he possibly can. And we've seen, more than once, how a bit of happiness can brace the boy. When you fellows visited him in the hospital, ahh, he didn't stop raving for days and days! She'll be for it, you can count on it!"

"All right sir ... Patrick. I'll get back to you sometime tomorrow at this number."

Thursday was an open date on our schedule and I spent it at the apartment, handling prosaic tasks like catching up on my laundry after almost ten days on the road.

I even mopped the kitchen floor.

That afternoon, I called Zeke Taylor at his home and told him about Nolan Ryan O'Conner's planned Friday release from the hospital.

"How would I find out what the Red Sox pitching rotation looks like?" I asked him.

"Try CBS Sports on the computer," Zeke said. "It's reasonably accurate. Better yet, just give ol' Lester a call and ask him."

"How would I get Jon Lester's number?"

"I can probably get it for you. I have spies everywhere."

"Really?"

"You ever hear of Forrest Whitcolm?"

"The player? Sure."

"Old, old friend from my Houston days," Zeke said.

"Played for the Sox for awhile, right?"

"Retired last year," Zeke said, "but he was the Red Sox' DH his last two seasons."

"You think he'll know Lester well enough to have his cell number?"

"I do. Or he'll know somebody who does."

"Okay, call him. Hey, maybe you should be the one, calls Jon Lester. He might not know who I am."

"Bullshit," Zeke said. "You got a hit off him on his last start. He'll know who you are."

It was early evening on Thursday when I heard back from Zeke with two phone numbers for Jon Lester. I had consulted the schedule and had found that the Red Sox were finishing up an afternoon game that day in Cleveland. They'd probably be flying into Baltimore that evening, ahead of Friday night's game.

I called the land line number anyway, and got a recorded message. I tried the cell phone and it was shut down. Maybe he was in the air already.

According to ESPN's scoreboard web page, the game in Cleveland had ended much earlier.

All I could do was call him Thursday night, after he'd had a reasonable shot at getting here -- if in fact the Sox were flying in that night.

I called Lester's cell number at 8:45 p.m. and he picked up.

"Jon, this is Todd Dushay, with the Orioles."

"Hey."

"Are you in the city?"

"Yes. We flew in tonight. What's up?"

"Listen, I've got this kid I met when I was in the hospital a few weeks back. He's a cancer patient. Some of the guys on the club are trying to set up a night at the ballpark for him. Kid's only nine years old."

"A night?"

"No, no. Nothing official. No public address announcements. I'm talking just an informal night. The boy and his family, with seats next to our dugout."

"You want me to come by and see him, right? ... I've met a lot of cancer survivors," Lester said. "I get to be kind of a poster boy for getting past cancer."

"Yeah, I know. That's why I'm calling you. We told Nolan -- this kid -- all about you. He's become a big Jon Lester fan since he heard the details about how you beat the disease."

"He's a Sox fan? Lots of Sox fans in Baltimore."

I laughed. "No, he's Orioles all the way. The only time he gets any kind of conflict going is when you're pitching against us. That's why I called. Are you scheduled to start in this series? CBS Sports says Saturday. Does that match up with reality as you know it?"

"Yep. I'm supposed to start Saturday night."

"Great! We're bringing the kid to the game to see you pitch."

"You give me the high sign, I'll come by, say hello to him before the game," Lester said.

"That would be fantastic. We're going to have him in seats right next to the dugout, if we can swing it. I'll come find you, bring you over."

"I'll gather up a few bits for him. Kids love souvenirs."

"That would be special, Jon ... Only don't try to convert him to Red Sox Nation. This kid is an honest O's fan ... Oh, and Jon, he's not exactly a cancer survivor. Not yet, anyway. He's still under treatment. No remission, no nothing. He's just getting out of the hospital tomorrow, and that's only because there's a break in his scheduled treatment."

"Got it," Lester said. "Just get to me Saturday before I have to start warming up, and I'll be at your disposal."

I took great pleasure in calling Patrick Terry's number back that night, even though by now it was almost ten p.m. and getting borderline-late for personal phone calls.