And weird, the way Mendoza was suddenly unhittable (where in Pawtucket the Rochester Red Wings were wearing him out), and Mo so hittable—and wild, very much unlike him. The fight’s great for ratings too, and reinvigorates the rivalry, after being down nine and a half games. As a novelist, I’d say the plot’s too pat, designed for the big finish, like some of the NFL playoff games the last couple years. The more I think of it, the less I like it.

SO: Now I know what you’re doing out there: writing scripts for Fox Baseball, a division of the International Roller Derby Association. Today’s walk-off sure looked cooked—the same bad pitch to Trot and Bill Mill? Talk about a groovy situation. I swear when Trot stepped in he looked out at Rivera apologetically, as if this wasn’t his idea (Thou shalt not lie, Christopher Trotman Nixon). But we’re so desperate that we’ll gladly take it and be thankful. Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain.

July 25th

ESPN’s showing the rubber game of the series, meaning it’s an 8:05 start. It also means ESPN’s built a temporary stage just past the third-base dugout, and the screen that’s usually at third has been moved to protect Peter Gammons, Harold Reynolds and John Kruk. When Miguel Cairo smokes a rope right at me in BP, I realize why the screen is there. The ball’s hit so on-the-nose that it knuckles, and I have to follow it all the way into my glove. I actually catch it in the pocket with a satisfying smack, getting a hand from the crowd and a few glances from the Yankees gathered at short, but it’s hit so hard that my index finger—which sticks through the Holdster opening and is cushioned by at least three layers of leather—is numb and then tingly.

“How’s it feel?” a guy behind me jokes.

“Good,” I say, and in a way it does. I’ve played a fair amount at goalie and at third base, and it’s the hardest shot I’ve ever stopped.

Here’s how big the game is: instead of the Hood blimp cruising low over us like Friday night, it’s the Met Life blimp. We’ve gone from regional to national.

I get a ball that A-Rod kicks taking grounders, then I’m off to Autograph Alley where Oil Can Boyd is signing, accompanied by a beefy, bleached-blond guy with a bright Hawaiian shirt and ten pounds of gold jewelry, like a wrestler’s manager. The Can is gaunt but stylish, fringes of gray in his close-cropped hair.

“Nineteen eighty-six,” I say as he’s signing my ball, “ALCS Game Six. You were here, I was here. Thanks, Dennis.”