I would sit in my daughter's room, in that undersized rocking chair next to the window. And I would look down, through his kitchen window, and watch h...m knead the first batch of dough.From that vantage all I could see was his hands, strong hands with a sensitive touch that had sent chills up my arm the first time we had met. His fingers would lift the edges of the dough, folding it over once and then again, and then the heels of his palms would push it into the floured wooden board. It was. But I had no confidence that I could perform in a game situation. The most-recent bean-ball incident had succeeded in once again messing up my mind.Sandy had decided to come to the game, even though we both knew I probably wouldn't play. After taking my cuts in batting practice, I motioned to her in the stands to come down to the edge of the field to talk to me. By now, Sandy was a familiar figure to the senior usher who guarded the steps that approached the Orioles' dugout. He offered no. More

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