Weiss Up

Her legs were dangling out over left field like the apples of God's eyes. It was one of those clear summer nights with a high sky and incandescent stars, just right for playing out romances and baseball games. The vast field stretched hugely and serenely in its allotted 500-foot arc, far below her gently swaying calves. And the white light from the towering black iron lamps stained everything into perfect hue: the brown and green of calves and grass, and the wine, orange, white of the players' uniforms. The colors collected perfectly into 50 baseball players for the Baltimore Orioles and Cleveland Indians clubs, the field in Memorial Stadium in Baltimore, and the two tanned legs of a girl in the upper deck. It was July 28, it was the beginning of a pennant race.

From the fifth inning on, I could not take my eyes off her. She had splendid brown hair that bounced and she wore pastel blue like a picture in a 1940s magazine. It didn't look as though she smiled that much; she just gracefully extended her legs over the concrete ledge past the red rail and not even the foul balls--hot white smears that lunged her way after inside pitches--seemed to faze her. There were half a dozen men around her, and a little boy beside her; I was in the eighth row, in a chairback seat. It was the summer of '75, and the Baltimore Orioles were eight games out, but couldn't take their eyes off the high flying Red Sox in first.

I'ell in love with her when I saw that she was keeping score. When Lee May hit a home run and everyone rose to cheer, only she and I sat still, dutifully nothing the passage of the ball. Cleveland took a 5-2 lead into the ninth but Baltimore rallied for three runs to tie. In the top of the tenth the Indians, spearheaded by Charlie Spikes' two-run single, grabbed a 7-5 lead and hung on to win.

The people in Baltimore took this defeat much better than the people in Boston would have. Things are much more languid in Baltimore. The city itself is larger and more square, its streets are wider and more regular, and the stadium is bigger and more conventional. People in Baltimore do not take any one game as seriously as Boston fans; there is a sense of permanence and resilience about the Orioles in Baltimore that would be utterly lost to the torrent of flesh that anguishes its way down Brookline Avenue after a Red Sox loss. When the Orioles lose, the boulevard outside does not ring with tragedy. Nothing is as precarious as the short-left field wall in Boston might convince you it is.

So, on that night late July, when the Birds were defeated to fall further off the pace, the fans shuffled off quietly and the girl in the front row stood for the first time since the game began. All the men around her had left, and the usher beckoned noisily from the exit for everyone to leave. She stood gazing at the diamond, where the ground crew was rolling out the dull green tarpaulin to close out the night. Slowly I made my way to the first row. The arena was all ours. My heart beat harder than a Baltimore chop under my jacket. She was oblivious, still staring languidly out at the empty field.

"Hey, I've been looking at you all night, and I had to introduce myself."

She only turned slowly. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. My name's Phil."

"Well, my name's Barbara."

She turned back only more devotedly to the field, brushing me aside with a flick of her har. I slinked off into the night, out through Section 7, with a humble, "Well, it was a pleasure looking at you," mumbled deferentially in her direction. The brunette in the first row had been beautiful, but the night had gotten dark, and I stumbled away alone.

This past weekend the Baltimore Orioles lost any hope for the American League pennant with a double dip to the New York Yankees in Shea Stadium. The stolid people of Baltimore, who have always counted on their team's stretch drive to victory, probably blame their failure on the collapse in New York. The sanguine fans of Boston probably ascribe the Orioles' downfall to a two-game series in the beginning of September, when the Red Sox smoked the Orioles twice in Baltimore.

But me, I know better. The Orioles lost the pennant on a cool night in July after a game with Cleveland Indians. It happened in the first row of the upper deck, and it was all because of a girl named Barbara.