I’m still on the pitcher’s mound, Linda Blair still in the batter’s box. As Bobby keeps up the catcalls to The Exorcist star, Warner Bros. players and fans booing and hissing louder, the actress steps out of the batter’s box.
I signal the ump for a time out. I motion Bobby to the mound for a conference. When they arrive, I tell them, “Can you guys back off that stuff?”
Bobby chides, “You worried she’ll spit pea soup at you?” He wiggles his forefinger and pinky behind the top of his head as horns, and he trots back to his positions. I strike out Linda Blair on three pitches.
An inning later we hold a 2-to-zero lead. There are no signs of a single demon anywhere on the diamond; just a scattering of boos as I take the mound. Warner Bros.’ cleanup hitter lumbers to the plate – a six-foot, four-inch, two hundred and thirty pound stone cold killer who glares at me.
He swings and misses my first pitch, which seems to anger him. He settles in like a bull and waits. I lob in my second pitch. He connects. The softball, which is anything but soft after just two innings in the frigid night air, rockets straight at my ankles, striking them squarely, knocking my legs out from under me. I fall like a sack of potatoes, Warner Bros. fans on their feet, cheering.
Bobby and Lori hurry to the mound and help me up, my ankles swelling. Bobby offers, “At least he didn’t spit pea soup at you.”
We win our first game 8 to 2. After post-game pizzas, I hobble home to ice my ankles.