“Welcome back,” I tell him.

“Thank you.” He’s surprisingly soft-spoken, you might even say shy.

“Have you noticed everyone’s been cheering the loudest for you, even here on the road.”

“It means a lot.”

I back off after he signs my ball, and see a Navigator with Illinois plates rolling up. I know Dauber’s the pride of Belleville, Illinois (along with Wilco’s Jeff Tweedy), so I call, “Your ride’s here.”

“Thanks,” he says, and he’s off.

When we get back to the hotel, I’m unwinding on the balcony when I see a woman on the beach in an old Lou Merloni shirt. “Loooooooo ooooooooouuuuuu!” I hoot, and she turns around but doesn’t see me.

For years Lou Merloni—the Pride of Framingham, Massachusetts—was our regular schlub and native son. He could play anywhere in the infield or outfield, and was a reliable pinch hitter. Someone would get hurt, and he’d end up starting, hit .330, and then sit when the guy came back. He was Nomar’s best friend, yet Sox management seemed to delight in shipping him down to Pawtucket and calling him back up, a crazy yo-yo motion. Two years ago we shipped him to San Diego, only to get him back in midseason.

Lou’s gone, off to Cleveland. Lou, who last year Ben Affleck (post-Dogma, pre-Gigli) called a joke during a visit to the Sox broadcast booth. Dauber’s our Lou now.

March 7th

There’s no point trying to beat the crowd today. People will be camping out for this one. Scalpers line Edison like hitchhikers, holding up signs: I NEED TICKETS.

The lot’s almost full two hours before game time. People are tailgating, barbecuing on hibachis. A few rows closer to the park, four cotton-headed grandmothers in full Yankee regalia have their lawn chairs arranged under a shade tree.

Inside, it’s a mini-invasion. The Yanks have brought their A-team: Jeter’s at short and A-Rod, weirdly, is at third. It seems crazy to pay a guy that kind of money to play a corner. It must be ego: A-Rod’s got better range, a better glove, a better arm. Jeter seems to have lost his concentration the last few years.

A-Rod lets a grounder skip under his glove into left, and the crowd cheers.

I notice the Yanks have a #22—Clemens’s old number. After all Roger’s talk of wanting to go into the Hall wearing a Yankee cap, it seems a calculated insult. While the Sox haven’t officially retired his 21, it’s one of the few numbers that hasn’t been assigned.

I don’t see Giambi or Sheffield, and wonder if the Yankees are protecting them from us. Our seats are down the right-field line, and I’d been looking forward to listening to the fans peppering Sheffield and waving signs like JUICIN’ JASON.

There’s a commotion down by the Sox dugout, and a cheer. Nomar’s come out to shake hands with A-Rod. I only see their heads for an instant before the photographers swamp them. A few minutes later the scene repeats when Nomar greets Jeter.