She had been there for all three of the
critical games of the weekend series.
Each day she had worn yellow and
now she was descending the stands
in white blouse, sun-flower yellow
skirt and scarf to match. She was
holding in her hand the home run
ball he had delivered in the bottom
of the eighth to put the team ahead.
He had also cinched it by making
a fine running catch against the fence
she now looked out of.
It was the first time he had spoken
to her. Players are superstitious in
that way. His team had to win all
three games to advance to the playoffs
and the silent treatment had been
"Don't tell me you caught it?" he
laughed his school kid laugh.
"No, the man right in front of me
caught it-- barehanded-- and he
gave it to me." She looked like
a young Debbie Reynolds close
up and he was singing in the rain
that had just started to sprinkle.
"How could he not give you the
ball," he gazed in open admiration
as he autographed the baseball,
"you're so darn pretty."
"And you're single-- and have no
"Does my baseball card say that?"
"No, the first page of my notepad.
I looked it up."
"It's like that, is it-- oh, oh, the guys
are waiting for me at home plate.
They're wondering why I'm cele-
brating out here. Me, too." He gave
her his best baseball banquet smile.
"I'll be waiting for you in left-field,"
she promised, " for the first home
game of the series."
"You'd better be," he turned mock
serious. "I might not be able to
find my way to left-field if you
He ran off on top of the world.
The drizzle had stopped at second
base and not headed for third.
THE GIRL IN LEFT-FIELD