Chapter 4

I had hoped for one of those rare games that required just over two hours to complete, and with Jon Lester pitching for Boston, it could have happened.

But of course it did not. Lester was pretty sharp and held us to three hits and two walks during his stint, which lasted six and two third innings. He left the game responsible for runners on first and third with two out, and his reliever got them out of the inning, still tied with us at 2-2.

Pretty much just the way Nolan Ryan O'Conner would have scripted it.

But I noticed from the dugout that shortly after Lester came out of the game, Nolan and his family went missing from their place in the stands. It was just after ten p.m., the game having started at 7:05, but evidently that was all the time the family felt they could keep Nolan in Camden Yards.

I had my freshly autographed Oriole baseball in its overpriced plastic case, but I'd have to give it to Nolan some other time.

It figured to be too late for me to call the Terry house by the time I got home after the game, but on the way to my apartment I got a call from Maureen O'Conner on my cell.

"The Orioles lost," she said.

There was no denying it.

"Is Nolan okay? I noticed when you all left."

"He's okay," she said, "but he was exhausted, and we decided we had to take him home. We listened to the game in the car and watched it when we got home, but Nolan slept through it all."

"Well, he got his wish about Lester pitching well and not having to take the loss. Only, a funny thing happened to us when we got to the part about beating up on some scummy Boston reliever."

"I haven't seen Nolan more full of life since he ... since all this started," she said.

"It went well, didn't it?" I agreed. "I thought when I hit the wall trying to get you seats at field level, it would turn out to be a dud of a day, but Paul Warren fixed it -- letting me bring Nolan into the dugout."

"I wish Nolan could have seen you play, too," Maureen said.

"Did your dad tell you what Nolan said to my manager?"

She giggled. "He certainly did! That was hilarious ... Paul Warren isn't the kind to hold it against you, is he?"

"No, no. That's not a problem. Paul was charmed by the kid. All the guys were. Hey, listen, that autographed ball Nolan got from Jon Lester? ... Pretty nice, huh?"

"You'd have thought it was the Holy Grail," she said.

"Yeah, Lester upstaged us pretty good on that one," I agreed. "Listen, I got all our guys to sign a baseball for Nolan too. I'd planned to give it to him right after the game. You suppose I could come by sometime, drop it off at the house?"

"That would be wonderful," she said. "It would give all of us a chance to thank you for a great evening ... Why don't you come by tomorrow?"

"We've got an afternoon game," I said. "It would have to be in the morning -- pretty early -- or else after the game."

"Why not come by and have dinner with us?" she said. "Is seven o'clock too early?"

"No, seven would work out. You can check in on the game on the tube, make certain nothing has delayed the finish, but seven should give me ample time after the game to get there."

"We'll look forward to it. All of us."

We finished off the series with the Red Sox with a 7-4 win Sunday, meaning that we'd once again held them at arm's length in second place in the standings. We would have only one more four-game set with Boston during the season's closing month. That series would be in their park. It would include a makeup game, meaning we'd play four games in just three days.

I didn't have to hurry too much after the game to make it on time for dinner with the Terry family. They lived close-in to the inner city, and I had augmented the directions I'd received from Maureen with a printed-out computer map to show me the way.

Patrick Terry's house was a big old two-story structure on the far side of an industrial area. It was in a solid-looking working-class neighborhood full of houses that looked as if they'd been there since World War II. I thought it would make a great set for a 1940's-era film -- like maybe a remake of The Best Years of Our Lives.

I got a big welcome and a bottle of Guinness Extra Stout from Patrick as I came in the door. My latest gift for Nolan -- the autographed ball -- had been expanded during a Sunday morning run to a regional shopping center so that it could include plastic-framed baseball cards featuring none other than Zeke Taylor, Bob Crandall, and Boston's own Jon Lester. I would have included one of my own cards as well, but the store didn't have one in stock. It's not that my card didn't exist. I have a card in this year's collection. They just didn't happen to have it in stock.

Probably a problem with high demand.

The Orioles' ball was a big hit with Nolan when I gave it to him, although I thought he'd made a somewhat bigger fuss over the one Jon Lester had given him Saturday night. Something to be said, I guess, for spontaneity, and for getting there first.

Anyway, the kid was pleased. What did I want -- a humanitarian award?

Maureen and her mother had collaborated on a superb home-cooked meal, and at least one of them obviously knew her way around a kitchen because everything smelled wonderful.

We sat down to dinner very shortly after I arrived, Maureen explaining that Nolan would be going to bed immediately after dinner and that it was best to try to get him to eat while his energy levels remained reasonably high.

"I'm disappointed in how he's done since he's been home," she had told me earlier while Nolan was off washing up for dinner. "He's been happy to be home, and the game -- and this whole weekend -- has been great for him, but his energy levels are down. It's not encouraging. The last time we had him home, it was the same kind of event. I mean, it was just a staged period at home between courses of treatment. But he seemed stronger then."

"Maybe there's just been too much excitement," I said. "Home on Friday, ballgame Saturday. Now me over here with more baseball fuss tonight. Maybe during this coming week, he'll feel under less pressure. Think about it. All of us have been kind of poking at the boy, you know? It's been like, 'Hey, Nolan, look what we're giving you now!' Maybe he feels like he's gotta be up all the time for the sake of the company."

"You're right," she said. "Possibly, he's been pushing himself a little, trying to be the perky little guy everybody wants him to be."

"Well," I said, "at least the Orioles will be leaving him alone for awhile. After tomorrow's open date, we're heading for Tampa and then Chicago. We'll be gone for six days."

After dinner, Patrick and I said goodnight to Nolan. His mother and grandmother took him upstairs to bed and didn't come back down right away.

Patrick laid a second Guinness on me, and we sat outside on the front porch. It was a hot late-August night but the porch was open on three sides, well-shaded, and there was a slight breeze. I really liked the neighborhood. It felt like going back in time.

We shared an old wooden swing attached with chain links to the ceiling. Patrick rested his beer bottle on a nearby window sill while mine was cradled in both my hands.

"He's not doing real good," Patrick said. "Not as good as we hoped he would by now."

"What do the doctors say?" I asked him.

"They say a lot, but not much of it seems to mean anything. They talk to Maureen all optimistic, y'know? But they don't promise her anything, and they don't ever talk in specifics about when the boy might start to do better. If you ask them right out, they'll just say things like 'he's holding his own, ' or 'we're still optimistic.'

"Only, when they say it, they don't sound optimistic, y'know? And they won't look her -- Maureen -- square in the eye, either. I was kinda hoping that she didn't notice that, but of course she does notice. She's remarked on it a couple times to me."

"And then when she's talking to her mother, Maureen'll do the same damned thing her own self -- sound all upbeat and optimistic, trying to boost her mother's morale."

"It's gotta be tough. On all of you," I said.

"Maureen was working. Had her a nice job downtown. She got real lucky, not too long after Nolan's dad was killed, landing herself a good job. She was paying for daycare, and the two of them -- her 'n the boy -- were on their own and coping pretty good.

"Then when Nolan got sick -- got diagnosed -- all the starch went right out of her. I asked her to come on back here with us, so we could help her, and I figured she'd say 'no' -- at least at first. But she agreed to it right away. I guess she felt everything slipping away and knew we were the only support she really had.

"She pretty soon quit her job -- thank God the health insurance continued on, and that's been a big help -- but now all she does is look after Nolan, whether he's here or up at Hopkins. It's all she does."

"She seems strong," I said.

It wasn't a throwaway compliment. I really did think Maureen O'Conner came across as very strong. I'd never once seen her in a posture that suggested that she felt sorry for herself.

Patrick Terry seemed to swell up a little with pride in his daughter. "She's like a fucking rock!" he said, "... 'scuse my French. That boy is her whole life now ... Too much so, 'you ask me."

"It's understandable, though," I said.

"I know you've taken a shine to the boy," Patrick said, "but you kinda like my daughter, too, don't you?"

I felt my face turning what must have been bright red and hoped the fading light and the dim overhead porch bulb were enough to disguise some of it.

"Hell, I ain't trying to embarrass you, Todd," he said when it was clear I wasn't going to answer him. " ... Far from it! Shoot, I approve! I wish t' God you'd ask her out on a date or something. Poor girl never sees anything but hospital rooms -- and me and her mother."

"It doesn't feel right," I said, finally. "Not with her a widow and all, and Nolan so sick."

"She lost her man nearly two years ago," he said. "It's been long enough."

"Okay, maybe it has," I said. "But I met Maureen through Nolan. In the hospital. It doesn't feel right at all, trying to cozy up to a young woman who's got all that weight on her shoulders."

"I understand where you're coming from," Patrick said, "but jeez, Todd, what about all that weight on her shoulders? Don't you think it would be nice, somebody try to help her a little with the burden?"

"Well, you're doing that. You and her mother. Somebody like me, it would just look like ... like opportunism."

"It could look like that -- if you was an opportunist ... But what if you was just a nice young man, wanted to do something good for this woman and her little boy? Isn't that who you are, Todd? It sure looks that way to me!"

"I've taken a lot of pleasure in doing little things for Nolan," I said. "So have some of the other players on the club. He's a lovable little guy, and you don't have to be a plaster saint to have your heart go out to him.

"But Maureen -- the way I ... my response to her is more like you'd expect. Like a man feels about a woman. And whenever I have those kinds of feelings about her, I kind of recoil because it seems ... wrong ... to feel that way. Because of her situation. All of it. Losing her husband. Now with her son so sick."

"So you feel like you're some kind of -- what'd you call it? ... Opportunist."

"Like a turkey buzzard," I said. "Flying around, ready to pounce on some weakened prey below."

Patrick allowed himself a small snort of laughter. "Pretty poetic, there, in a half-assed way," he said. " ... Like a turkey buzzard, yet!"

I smiled in agreement that the image hadn't been particularly apt. "You know what I'm trying to say," I said. "I wouldn't know where to start, asking Maureen out on a date. How would it look to her? She'd start right away, wondering whether all this fuss about Nolan was just some kind of ruse, so that I could..."

"So you could -- what? Get into her pants? That's bullshit, son! She ain't no little girl. She's coming up on thirty years old. She's got a sick child and a dead husband, and she's back living with her folks after eight years out making her way in the adult world and building herself a family and a life.

"Now, that life she was building is about wiped out, and instead of you thinking how you might try to help her build a new one, you're all worried about how she might think you were just out for a freebie. You don't think you've got a little more going for you than that? You don't think you've got something to offer a woman like Maureen?"

"We haven't had the first conversation of the kind you are suggesting," I told him. "Not once."

"So you're thinkin', what's an old fart like me doing, trying to recruit boyfriends for his grown-up daughter. Right? Where do I get off? Shoot, boy, I could see, just over the dinner table tonight, how you were looking at that girl!"

"I swear to God, Patrick, I haven't had any designs on her. I am not about to make any moves on your daughter!"

"Todd, Goddamn it, I'm on your side, boy! I'm trying to tell you that it isn't nasty or wrong for you to think about Maureen in that way! My God, why not give her a chance? She can always say no to you if she's not interested."

"Because if she did say no to me -- or even if she didn't -- she'd always think the only reason I was being nice to Nolan was because I was ... after his mama."

"For a grown-up man, you're kind of stuck on the idea of image, aren't you Todd?"

"I don't think I am, no. Not usually. But this is a special case."

"Because the thought could cross Maureen's mind that you might be interested in only one thing, right?"

"Patrick, this conversation isn't getting us anywhere. I don't think I'm ready to say anything to Maureen. You don't think my reasons are good enough. We disagree about that. Let's just leave it be."

"I won't say another word," he said. "You want some dessert? Another beer?"

I declined. Finally Maureen came looking for us, and she, too, offered me dessert and/or beer. I declined and suggested it might be time for me to call it a night.

"But it's very early," she said. "And didn't you say you had a day off tomorrow? C'mon, stay and let's all get acquainted."

Getting acquainted consisted mostly of the three of them asking questions about me and my family. Surprisingly, they didn't focus their questions much on my baseball career, such as it was.

Maybe they were sensitive enough to know that my past days in the minors -- past years, I should say -- were not the stuff of legend. This was, after all, my first full year in the majors. I was a late bloomer, assuming one could consider me a "bloomer" of any kind.