We planned for the following weekend.The following Saturday, he comes over to my place, we have a beer first and he asks for some head before we leave... I asked if he could wait until later and he jokingly says he “wants one now before my jaw gets sore tonight”. So I give the smartass what he wants and we head into the city. I’m wearing black tights, knee high heeled boots, a tight black t-shirt, a gray sweater, which hardly covers my butt. I’m not wearing any underwear. He tells me I may regret. 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. More

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