And now, in addition to all our injuries and our far-from-secure lead in the wild card, in addition to a three-game bulge for the Yankees that won’t seem to shrink any lower than two games, I have to cope with the near certainty that Curt Schilling will not manage to win twenty games in the regular season, but will remain stuck on nineteen instead. Martinez, Wakefield, Arroyo, and the tragickal Mr. Lowe will have to take up the slack.

Thanks, Sports Illustrated.

Thanks a pantload.

You guys suck.

Behind Fenway, at the corner of Yawkey Way and Van Ness Street, sits the players’ parking lot. Four hours before game time the Sox take over Van Ness, barricading both ends and evicting any parked cars. By then a sizable clump of autograph hunters is already waiting. There’s no way you can get close enough to the players’ Mercedeses and Volvos and Range Rovers as they pull in (or Gabe Kapler’s and Kevin Millar’s chromed-out hogs), and the tall fence surrounding the lot is lined with a heavy green tarp so you can’t see in, but a hundred feet down Van Ness there are three horizontal slots cut into the fence about thigh-high, and as the players walk from their rides to the clubhouse entrance, some will stop to sign.

The slots are uncomfortably close to glory holes, with all that that implies. The only way to tell who’s coming is to kneel on the concrete, press your cheek against the metal edge and peer sideways through the slot like the opening of a pillbox.

Today I’m the first one there, and stake out a spot at the end of the first slot. Position is everything: some guys will sign just a few and then break off, leaving fans at slots two and three grumbling. I’ve also chosen a weekday for my hunting because weekends people are packed six and seven deep, and I’d feel like a heel claiming a spot before some little kid (little kids also have no qualms about stepping on you or crawling over your back).

As the other hunters show up, I realize that compared to them, I am a little kid, a rank amateur. They’re mostly pros, dealers who owe each other money and merchandise. They bring bat-bags full of Big Sticks, boxes of balls, albums of eight-by-ten glossies—high-ticket items they can sell on eBay. As we stand there waiting for the Sox to arrive, they’re cutting deals and boasting of recent acquisitions, trading information about upcoming shows.

“What are you working there?” one asks me. “Hat? Couple a balls?”

I try explaining that the hat’s for me—to wear—but it’s impossible for him to understand that I’m just a fan.