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I nodded.***His fist slammed into my face. I staggered back. No stability in thoseshoes. My ankle wobbled and I hit the wall. A picture frame shatteredagainst the back of my skull. Glass shards rained down about myshoulders. Fosters was on me immediately, another punch catching me inthe stomach. Pain flared in my side. I began to crumble, until anuppercut sent me back. My shoulder clipped the wall and I spun into thesofa. I hit the armrest and tumbled forward. His knee dropped onto myback. He hauled my head back by my hair. My scalp burned. I tastedblood. His fingers closed around my throat."You pathetic wimp," he hissed. He dragged me off the sofa. I scrabbleduseless at his grip. He lifted me up and slammed me against the wall andheld me there. "Did you enjoy dressing like this?" His hand released mythroat and grabbed at the prosthetic breasts. "Enjoy being felt up?" Hisrough squeeze went unfelt, but with a tearing sound and the popping ofbuttons he ripped the blouse open. Fosters'. Sam, also a pitcher, was sort of Shiggie's on-field keeper. When we were on the road, the Orioles paid Amy's expenses so that she was always readily available to help Paul Warren and the coaches to communicate with "Shiggie." She also was teaching him English.Seeing Sandy and Amy together, even I had to admit to myself that Amy Parkison was the taller and the prettier of the two, but it was Sandy who was making my heart go pitter-pat. I wished I could persuade her to stay with me for the entire road trip. It wasn't that she was a good-luck charm, exactly. It was far more than that. I felt like she was my anchor. She kept me from flying off into space. She helped me to deal with the strangeness of this new feeling I had acquired -- on the field -- when I was at the plate. It was a feeling that I had never experienced, before I'd gotten my face broken by a fastball.It still didn't feel like fear. I didn't feel like I was bailing out on the pitches, or flinching. But something was.
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