High TidesChapter 25 One Damned Thing After Another
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I'd received special permission from the club to forego the hotel and stay at my parents' home while we were in Atlanta. I'd wanted to ask permission to have Shiggie and Amy stay over, too, but Amy suggested that all that would accomplish would be to have Japanese reporters invade the neighborhood.
I did take both of them by the house for an afternoon get-acquainted get-together, proudly introducing Amy to my folks as the Main Squeeze I'd been incessantly telling them about over the telephone.
They were impressed. Who'da thunk their klutzy little boy could land such a Babe-a-licious Angel as Amy? Amy looked so comfortable talking to my mom that I wondered if they'd already met someplace, and this whole thing had been a set-up.
My dad is the salt of the earth, but he's also got Dirty Old Man genes, and he was ogling Amy and rolling his eyes and elbowing me the same way Shiggie did. I knew he wanted to know all the sordid details, but, gentleman that I am, all he got from me was a raised eyebrow that was saying, "Yes, I'm boffing her!"
Shiggie was warmly welcomed, too. My parents are the greatest! I could have had Amy over for the night, and we could have slept together in my room -- the one with the Atlanta Braves pennant still hanging over the single bed -- and they wouldn't have batted an eye.
Hell, we could have had Ford and Shiggie over for the night, and I don't think my folks would have been upset. They were pretty cool, as parents go.
But instead, we just had a pleasant lunch together, and talked about that night's game -- and the wind-up second game the following night, when Shiggie was to be our scheduled starter.
When we left for Turner Field in the late afternoon, I instructed my dad to take down the Braves' pennant from my otherwise-perfectly-preserved bedroom, and I'd find him, or mail him, an Orioles' pennant to take its place.
My folks were coming to both games.
I had hoped, before the Atlanta trip, that I'd get to pitch in Turner Field, but now that I was a "starter," my turn wasn't coming up and it was highly unlikely I'd be called upon. Too bad. Pitching in the Big Leagues, and especially in Atlanta, had been a longstanding fantasy of mine. Of course, growing up, I had envisioned myself wearing a Braves' uniform for the occasion.
Maybe if I had still been the long reliever, I would have seen some action in that first game, because Atlanta pounded us, early and often, and we lost the opener, 11-4. Since we didn't even have a long reliever at the moment, the Braves took their shots at a lengthy parade of Oriole short men, all of whom, it seemed, were determined to make their mound visits to Turner Field even shorter than Paul Warren had intended.
Warren spent as much time on the mound as any of our pitchers, holding the ball and waiting for the Next Victim to arrive from the bullpen.
Put me in, coach! I'm ready to play -- today! For the first time, I kinda wished I was still the guy they relied upon for long relief. At least then my dad could have seen me play.
It occurred to me that I could invite my folks to come see me play in Baltimore. The idea had come to me a little late, since my days of knowing, in advance, when I'd be called upon to pitch were rapidly coming to an end. My scheduled start, two days hence, against the Marlins was very likely going to be my last appearance as a starter for some time.
So Game One in Atlanta was a laugher for the locals, and I went back, alone, to my childhood home for the night, feeling a little somber. The Goddamned Yankees had, of course, won their inter-league game against the Mets, and we were now in a flat-footed tie with that bunch of phonies for the Division lead.
Well, at least Boston was running through a bad patch. The Red Sox were a distant third, and losing again that night to the Phillies in inter-league play.
As usual, Toronto and Tampa were smelling mildew in the cellar.
Next morning at breakfast with my folks, my dad wanted to know more about Amy. What he really wanted to know was whether she swallowed, but he was (just barely) civilized enough not to ask, and I wasn't about to betray any confidences, so early in my relationship with Amy.
Maybe I'd confide in Dad at some future time -- like at my bachelor party, the night before the wedding ceremony.
So I kept the father-son conversation PG-13, and when I left in the early afternoon for the team's hotel, all my folks knew was that yes, Amy and I were sleeping together (maybe even having actual sex!), and yes, I was thinking, and hoping, that it was Something Serious.
They definitely approved. They were very supportive, although their basic lack of confidence in me was evident. They said all the right things, but the gist of their attitude was, "we hope you don't find a way to screw this up!"
Vicky
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