Ted 8217 s family ecounter part 1
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Ted Who?Chapter 11 free porn video
Sandy and Amy got along like long-lost twin sisters, although they really weren't much alike. Amy Parkison was drop-dead gorgeous, and practically every guy on the team had been lusting after her since the first time we'd seen her.
Shigeo Nomura, our young Japanese lefthander, spoke almost no English, and Amy had been hired as his translator. Nomura didn't seem to be romantically interested in Amy, although his roommate, Sam Bailey, obviously was giving her a full-time rush. The three of them actually lived together, back in Baltimore. Sam, also a pitcher, was sort of Shiggie's on-field keeper. When we were on the road, the Orioles paid Amy's expenses so that she was always readily available to help Paul Warren and the coaches to communicate with "Shiggie." She also was teaching him English.
Seeing Sandy and Amy together, even I had to admit to myself that Amy Parkison was the taller and the prettier of the two, but it was Sandy who was making my heart go pitter-pat. I wished I could persuade her to stay with me for the entire road trip. It wasn't that she was a good-luck charm, exactly. It was far more than that. I felt like she was my anchor. She kept me from flying off into space. She helped me to deal with the strangeness of this new feeling I had acquired -- on the field -- when I was at the plate. It was a feeling that I had never experienced, before I'd gotten my face broken by a fastball.
It still didn't feel like fear. I didn't feel like I was bailing out on the pitches, or flinching. But something was different, and, whatever it was, Sandy seemed to be the only antidote. When she was nearby, when I could think about her, back there behind me in the stands, the fear -- if that's what it was -- didn't take hold of me.
Superstition? Was that all it was? Maybe. But I had never been superstitious. I'd never cared about mystical stuff; it had always seemed like bullshit to me. I certainly didn't worry about black cats, or stepping on the baseline when I left the playing field.
But now. I felt like a hitter when Sandy was there. I even forgot, a couple of times, to put on my Captain America goggles when I went up to the plate.
But when Sandy wasn't there, I felt a little empty. Hard to admit something like that. It was like being kind of weak: it made me feel effeminate, even, although I knew there were plenty of women around who were as strong-willed as the strongest man.
Whatever it was, I felt it. Maybe if Sandy wasn't around, my hitting slump would wear off, all on its own, and I'd be OK.
But I doubted it, and, earlier, it had been driving me nuts, waiting for it to happen, and watching my batting average nose-dive.
First game at Fenway, I went four for four -- all singles -- and we won, 6-2. That put us six games over .500 for the first time in the season, and my average rose to .381 -- the highest it had been since the beaning incident.
I Kept hitting, and on the afternoon of June 2, in our final game of the Boston series, I got three more and extended my hitting streak to eleven games. I was hitting .389 on the season, and we'd taken three of four from the Red Sox.
We were flying to Detroit that afternoon, and I cabbed it to the airport with Sandy, still begging her to come along to Detroit.
"This is insane," Sandy told me, not for the first time. "This isn't good for you at all! Just let me go on home, and when the club gets back to Baltimore, I'll be at the park for every home game -- I swear!"
"Just come along for this road trip," I begged. "Then, when we get back home, you can discuss it with the Doc, see what he says you should do."
"You think he's gonna back you up on this?" she said. "Not in a million years! Anyway, Doc Connelly's not a shrink."
"So. Ask a shrink, then! I don't care who you ask. Just hang with me, while this streak is going on. Please, Sandy!"
"I feel like a human pacifier," she complained. "You're not treating me like a person -- certainly not like a therapist. I'm just -- your good-luck charm."
"It's not like that!" I protested. And it wasn't. It was difficult for me to tell Sandy what it was like, because the "good-luck charm" analogy had occurred to me, as well.
But it just wasn't like that.
"I'm not a rabbit's foot," Sandy said. "And I'm not your mother, either."
I liked the "pacifier" analogy best, I thought to myself, although I certainly didn't say so to Sandy. I thought of several points on Sandy's tight little body that would make for some fantastic pacification activity.
Virginia
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