From the Heart

“What?”
    “I didn’t take it.” Thorpe pulled off his socks and tossed them in the direction of the hamper. “You’re off this weekend—” he began.
    “Wait a minute.” Liv sat up straighter. “You turned down the most prestigious position in CNC or any other news organization in the country?”
    “You could put it that way if you want.” He lit a cigarette from his second pack that day.
    “Why?”
    Thorpe blew out a stream of smoke. “I like working the field. I don’t want to anchor, at least not in New York. About this weekend, Olivia.”
    “You’re a strange man, Thorpe.” She settled back againstthe pillows. She couldn’t quite figure him out. “A very strange man. Most reporters would kill for the job.”
    “I’m not most reporters.”
    “No,” she said slowly, considering. “No, you’re not. You’d make a good anchor.”
    “Well.” He smiled as he unbuttoned his shirt. “That’s quite a compliment from you. Want some company?”
    “Thorpe, I’m in bed.”
    “If that’s an invitation, I accept.”
    Unable to do otherwise, she laughed. “No, it’s not. I haven’t had a conversation like this since high school.”
    “We can go out and neck in the back seat of my car.”
    “No thanks, Thorpe.” Relaxed, she snuggled down into the pillows. When was the last time, she wondered, that she had had a foolish conversation in the middle of the night? “If you only called to say good night . . .”
    “Actually, I called about tomorrow afternoon.”
    “What about it?” Liv yawned and closed her eyes.
    “I’ve got two tickets for opening game.” He stripped off his shirt and tossed it to follow the socks.
    “Opening game of what?”
    “Good God, Liv, baseball. Orioles against the Red Sox.”
    He sounded so sincerely shocked by her ignorance, she smiled. “Dick Andrews handles sports.”
    “Broaden your outlook,” he advised. “I’ll pick you up at twelve-thirty.”
    “Thorpe,” she began, “I’m not going out with you.”
    “It’s not a seduction, Liv; that comes later. It’s a ball game. Hot dogs and beer. It’s an American tradition.”
    Liv turned off the light and pulled the covers up over her shoulders. “I don’t think I’m making myself clear,” she murmured.
    “Try it again tomorrow. Palmer’s pitching.”
    “That’s very exciting, I’m sure, but—”
    “Twelve-thirty,” he repeated. “We want to get there early enough to find a parking place.”
    Sleepy, she yawned again and let herself drift. It was probably simpler to agree. What harm could it do? Besides, she’d never been to a ball game.
    “You’re not going to wear one of those hats, are you?”
    He grinned. “No, I leave that to the players.”
    “Twelve-thirty. Good night, Thorpe.”
    “Good night, Carmichael.”
    She was smiling as she hung up. Just before she drifted into sleep, she realized her headache had disappeared.

6
    M emorial Stadium was packed when they arrived. Liv was to learn that Baltimore was very enthusiastic about their Orioles. There were not, as she had presupposed, only men wearing fielders’ caps and clutching beers in the stands. She saw women, children, young girls, college students, white- and blue-collar workers. There must be something to it, she concluded, to draw out so many people.
    “Third base dugout,” Thorpe told her, gesturing down the concrete steps.
    “What?”
    “That’s where we’re sitting,” he explained. “Behind the third base dugout. Come on.” Taking her arm, he propelled her down. She frowned out at the field, trying to put together what she knew of the sport with the white lines, brown dirt and grass.
    “Know anything about baseball?” Thorpe asked her.
    Liv thought a moment, then smiled at him. “Three strikes and you’re out.”
    He laughed and took his seat. “You’ll get a crash course today. Want a beer?”
    “Is it un-American to have a Coke instead?” While he signaled a roving concessionaire, Liv leaned against the railing in front of her and studied the field. “It seems simple enough,” she commented. “If this is third base here, then that’s first and second.” She gestured out. “They throw theball, the other guy smacks it and then runs around the bases before someone catches it.”
    “A simplistic analysis of the thinking man’s sport.” Thorpe handed her the Coke.
    “What’s there to think about?” she asked before she sipped.
    “Strike zones, batting averages, force-outs, double