Barry Larkin as an All-Star for the last time

I suppose I'm a couple days late on the Barry Larkin post, but that's because I don't really have anything to add. I never had a strong feel either way for his candidacy, but I suppose I now see him as more a Hall of Famer than not. He was among the shortstops who "changed the position," as they like to say (not the shortstops themselves, saying that, but other people), and he was probably the National League equivalent of Cal Ripken Jr. -- only without the consecutive games played streak or the Q rating. Plus, now the 1990 Reds have a Hall of Famer.

But then I remembered I had this photo -- taken during his last season, when he was named to his last All-Star team. It's one of my favorite shots from that weekend, when I was in Houston to cover the celebrity softball game but got to stay for everything else -- and then fly back to Newark sitting next to one of Tom Gordon's sons before chatting with Harold Reynolds at baggage claim.

The other Larkin memory I have is how he rejected a trade to the Mets in 2000 because they wouldn't give him a three-year extension. I'm not sure Larkin would have been the difference in the 2000 World Series, so in hindsight it looks like a wise move by the Mets considering that Larkin only played more than 70 games once in those three seasons from 2001-03, and Jose Reyes debuted in June 2003.

I think I would've liked the man they called 'Killer'

My exposure to Harmon Killebrew was minimal. His final game came a year before I was born, and I can't recall him ever appearing at card shows when I attended those events growing up. As an avid collector with an insatiable appetite for baseball trivia as a seventh/eighth grader, if you'd asked me to name the 500 home run club (which, in the late '80s, consisted of just 14 men), I'd probably get 12 or 13 pretty easily, and then have to think longer to remember Killebrew. That's no fault of Killer's. I grew up in New Jersey; the Mets were my team. Baseball was long gone from Washington and the Twins were known for Kent Hrbek, Kirby Puckett, Dan Gladden and Frank Viola.

But I think Harmon Killebrew would've been the kind of player I really liked, an underdog of sorts among the game's greatest sluggers. He may have been listed at six feet tall, but it seems he was probably an inch or so shorter. If some photos I've seen today are dated correctly, he was bald before he was 30. And in recent years, while some of the living members of the 500 Home Run Club still look like they could give the ball a ride, he looked as much like your middle-school principal, your barber or your pharmacist as he did the 10th player to reach that long ball milestone.

My one encounter with Killebrew came before the 2004 All-Star Game, when MLB brought the living members of the 500 Home Run Club to Houston for the Home Run Derby. It was amazing being in the same room with all of those sluggers, not to mention the Commissioner of baseball and the top sportswriters in America. As I mentioned in that blog post, I considered asking some questions of a few of the legends, but with no assignment or specific questions in mind, I decided I'd rather get photos of each of the guys. I'm happy that I did, but looking back, it's unfortunate that 2004 was still the beginning of the digital age -- I was still working with a film SLR and had no way to know how my shots turned out until getting the prints back from the lab. My shot of Killebrew is OK, but the flash bounced off a few sportswriters in front of me, putting Killer in the shadows when he deserved the spotlight alongside his peers in that room.

VOTE WRIGHT! It's your duty as a fan

David Wright, New York Mets farmhand

With All-Star Game balloting ending Thursday night at 11:59 p.m. ET, one stroke before midnight, I'm going to do all I can this week to promote David Wright for third base. There are several reasons for this campaign of mine, all of which I'll reveal in daily posts between now and then.

For this first, brief one before I go to bed, I simply offer the first photo I ever took of Wright, during batting practice at the 2004 All-Star Futures Game in Houston. I was on the field with a press pass and got a shot of him talking with his Double-A manager, Ken Oberkfell, and his Virginia childhood pal B.J. Upton (you can see his name to the right of Wright).

Too bad he was given a black-with-blue-brim Mets hat for that game.

So get started! Click on the Vote Wright link at the top of the right column on this page and let's see him starting in Anaheim on July 13.

Photo Friday: Miniature baseball

2004 Home Run Derby

I first started seeing photos taken with a tilt-shift lens a few weeks ago and was enthralled by the effect the distortion had on the photos. The small center of focus plays tricks with your eyes, making the photos appear to be minature models, yet in reality they're images of actual, life-sized people and places. So when a post on Gothamist featuring a fascinating time-lapse movie of tilt-shift photos included a link on how to create the effect in Photoshop, I spent an hour browsing my photos for suitable images.

Some images turned out better than others, but I like this inital effort. It's kind of a fun new way to look at some pics I'd grown used to seeing.

Final photos from the All-Star Game

There just wasn't enough room to get all my favorite photos from All-Star Weekend into a single entry, so here is a handful of remaining images that I felt worthy of posting.

In the eighth grade, one of our research paper assignments required that we write about a career. We could choose any one we liked, but I suppose the exercise was had the dual intention of getting us to start thinking about our futures as we headed into high school as well as helping us develop research and writing skills. I chose the career of Sports Photographer (capitalized, as if in the game of Life). Not long after that, a year or two, I got my first "real" camera, a Minolta Maxim something-or-other. It was a birthday gift, given to me a few weeks before the day one summer when my buddy Matt and our dads went to Boston to visit Boston College and take in a Red Sox game. Some of those first photos were of Nolan Ryan, Juan Gonzalez, Rafael Palmeiro and other Rangers and Red Sox in the Fenway outfield during BP.

Somewhat fittingly, that camera broke at a ballpark as well. In the summer of 1999, my sports editor at the newspaper asked if I wanted to write a weekly baseball column. The idea was that I would travel to the six minor-league ballparks in New Jersey at the time, as well as the new Yankees' affiliate on Staten Island. I managed a coup when I convinced them to expense a trip to Fayetteville, N.C., to investigate the Cape Fear Crocs, a team that had been bought earlier that summer and would be moving to Lakewood, N.J., in two years. I found something of a ghost city, a town struggling to rebound from tough times and a less-than-high-school-quality field that was meant to host minor league baseball 70 nights a year. It was a sad state.

But the camera broke a couple of weeks before that trip, when I visited Newark to see the Bears in their new (and at the time, just about finished) stadium. Out beyond centerfield lay the New York skyline, the Twin Towers the signature buildings. I took a few shots and then heard a pop or a crack. It sounded like my plastic lens cover hitting the concrete concourse, so I looked at my feet, thinking I'd dropped it. Nothing, nowhere. It was in my pocket the whole time. But after that, my camera refused to work. The repairs would cost nearly as much as a new rig, so I upgraded.

Anyway, I've thoroughly enjoyed taking pictures for the last 10 years, plus. Here are the last shots of an eighth-grade research paper come to life.


And the rockets' red glare ...


Jeet pleases the fans during NL batting practice.


Danny Graves tosses an autographed ball back to an unseen (to him) fan.


Roger Clemens didn't stop smiling all weekend ... well, until he threw his first pitch.


I just love this one as a photograph in itself.

When I switched to black and white film during Tuesday's pregame batting practice, I thought it was appropriate that the first photo I took was of one of the oldest players in the game, Barry Larkin. Surprisingly, VH1 didn't tie in its promotion of I Love the 90s with Larkin and the All-Star Game.

It Still Counts: All-Star Gameday

All-Star Game Day, July 13, 2004, Houston

Really, it could have been Christmas morning. That's the kind of excitement Tuesday held. Laura played hooky from work and the three of us went to Buffalo Wild Wings for lunch. Joe Morgan was in the hotel lobby when she came in to get me, and she thought about getting a baseball for him to sign, then didn't.

We rode the shuttle to the ballpark together, getting there around 3:30. I went down to the field and sat on the Astros bench in the dugout to relax and be ready for batting practice at 4 o'clock. Stark and Kurkjian stood at the railing and talked. A few all-stars came out and mingled. Mark Loretta talked with someone about teammate Phil Nevin: "If he likes you, he'll do anything for you." That came after a statement that held the opposite meaning, if you know what I mean.

Being 5-foot-7, I'm dwarfed on the field when the players come out. Most people are taller than me, so even the sports writers look down to me. So unless I can get to the front of the crowd, I don't see much. So when, standing near the batting cage, I heard "Derek! Derek! Jeter!" coming from above the NL dugout behind me, I knew he was around. When I turned, two media members stepped aside and Derek Jeter came right at me. He obviously hadn't seen me on the other side of the tall people. "Excuse me," he said, then brushed past me and embraced Barry Larkin in a bear hug from behind.


Members of the shortstop brotherhood.

Mike Piazza came out of the dugout and walked out to the outfield behind second base. He said hello to Albert Pujols, then asked to see his first baseman's mitt, trying it on.

I took some pictures of Jim Thome taking throws at first base, of Mike Lowell in the batting cage, of Bobby Abreu next to it.

After the NL batted, the players went out to centerfield for the team photo and I noticed Tommy Lasorda amid a sea of reporters. When the NL players came back in from the outfield, Piazza put his arm around Lasorda as the two talked.


The catcher and the godfather.

Fox had its pregame desk set up in foul territory down the first base line, and Jeanie Zelasko had her long blond hair done up all wavy and wore a brilliant pink jacket. She just seems to get more bimboed up each week.

In another case of someone seemingly following me, I turned around to see Roger Clemens coming off the field. It was like a train wherever he went: always followed by a trail of reporters and/or security. At one point, the script "Astros" was headed straight for my head. ESPN's Chris Berman pulled him aside for a quick interview, and I headed down the steps into the dugout for a little bit.


Boomer and the Rocket.

I snapped a shot of Tom Glavine giving an interview and was heading up the steps when I heard the telltale cries from the fans above the dugout: "Mike! Mike!" Piazza was coming. I looked ahead of me, saw him coming toward the steps I was ascending, and backed down quickly, hoping to get a picture as he walked into the dugout. He was walking too fast, however, and I barely stepped to the side on the steps as he reached them. Looking up to the fans, he said, "Not now. I've got to go inside." He gestured beneath the stands as he spoke, pointing downward, and nearly conked me in the head with his elbow as he did so.


Glavine 47.

This 75th All-Star Game is the second in the two-year experiment to give home-field advantage in the World Series to the league that wins the midsummer exhibition game. Because baseball screwed up the concept so badly, coming to a climax with the 2002 tie in Milwaukee, they had to do something. I don't think using the All-Star Game is the answer, but it is at least nice to see it treated like a meaningful game again. There's no chance of it ever becoming meaningful again for the sake of league pride, so I guess this is the next best thing. What they should really do is have a monetary bonus for the winning players, a prize you only get if you actually play in the game. That would motivate them. It might cause some problems with players who aren't used, but something could be worked out for them. If they were healthy and able to play, but didn't, then they'd get a smaller, token bonus, but a guy like Schilling or Sean Casey, who were there and took part in just about everything else, wouldn't because they couldn't contribute. But the MLB slogan "This One Counts" seems a little ridiculous to me. It counts, but it doesn't. The stats don't count, the game result doesn't count. Only the winner matters. And yet, as if to remind the players that they truly are playing for something, the bases not only carried the All-Star Game logo on top, but the "This One Counts" slogan on the four sides. Any player diving into a base on a pickoff attempt or an extra-base hit will see those words coming closer. I think it was Scott Rolen who was quoted in an article I read that said the All-Star Game wasn't the right way to decide who gets homefield advantage. It shouldn't be decided by 32 guys on either side, he said, suggesting interleague play be the determining factor. Let all 700 players decide it was his point.

Exhausted, I left the field and joined Laura and David in the stands to talk with them some more before leaving for the mezzanine. I staked out a spot in the front row, directly above the Astros bullpen mound, planning to take pictures of Clemens as he warmed up. It put me in the perfect spot to see Roger start his warmups by long-tossing with his bullpen catcher in the outfield. When Piazza wandered out from the dugout, Roger kept throwing with the bullpen catcher, so Mike put his mask and glove down and did some stretches. When he moved to the bullpen, Clemens brought his bullpen guy with him. Then Piazza went in and took two or three pitches before hopping on a bullpen cart for a quick trip back to the dugout for the player introductions. Ivan Rodriguez, meanwhile, remained in the AL bullpen throughout introductions warming up Mark Mulder. In listening to New York talk radio and some viewpoints from Houston and elsewhere since last Tuesday, Mike Piazza has come out of this whole "feud" with Clemens as the good guy. It was Clemens who hit him, Clemens who threw the bat, Clemens who used his own catcher to warm up for the All-Star Game. It was even Clemens who, in the midst of his worst first inning ever, who shook off Piazza's pitch to throw a slider that Manny Ramirez sent into the left-field seats. I've since heard that the reason Piazza's so pissed at Clemens is that somewhere during the past few years Clemens has made an insensitive and derogatory comment about Piazza and, well, his sexual preference.


The Rocket warms up.

When it comes to Clemens, I don't blame him for signing with the Astros and I think the Yankee fans who whine and cry over his "betrayal" of the Yankees are whining for whining's sake. How many players have the Yankees taken from their original teams, players the fans now despise for simply jumping at the money the Yankees can offer? Nowhere does it say that every potential Hall of Famer since 1990 has to play for the Yankees and retire a Yankee, but to hear some of the callers to New York talk radio, you'd think it was one of baseball's new rules or trends, like the bereavement list or alternate jerseys. That being said, I'm not a big fan of Clemens. I'm in awe at what he's done as a pitcher, but I don't admire him the way I did Nolan Ryan. It was amusing to see Clemens get shelled by the AL in his home park, and I've always felt there was a difference in Clemens and a pitcher who throws inside. There's throwing inside and there's throwing at a batter's head. A case can be made for the likes of Don Drysdale and Bob Gibson, notoriously aggressive headhunters, but at least those guys had to pay for it themselves by taking their turn at bat. Until this year, and with the exception of that one interleague game at Shea Stadium a couple of seasons ago, Clemens never had to pick up a bat and stand in the batter's box.

I watched the game and kept score, not an easy task on a standard scoresheet (I used the one in the media guide) for an All-Star Game with so many changes. I still haven't gone through it to make sure it's accurate. My seat in the front row of the section nearly proved to be the perfect spot. When David Ortiz sent a rocket to right-center, I took a quick look and declared, "That's coming up here." It hit the front of the temporary table about 15 feet to my left, bounced back toward the field, then ricocheted off the railing and three rows up into the hands of another journalist. Within minutes, he'd taken several calls from friends and family who saw him on TV and then he went hunting for a clubhouse pass to borrow from another reporter (not all of us, myself included, had the Texas-shaped badge necessary for clubhouse access). "It's his first all-star homer," he said. "It's right for me to keep it."

After the sixth inning, my prediction came true when the roof began rolling back. I didn't notice it at first, instead watching the stadium's "Kiss-Cam" on the monitors in the press area. But when the Fox feed came back on, it was a wide shot of the field showing the growing opening. "Drayton loves the roof," Laura told me earlier after we'd talked about the home run derby. "He's got a button for it in his office." I figured that if he was going to open it for the derby, he'd surely want to show it off during the game itself. Again, before the roof was 1/3 open, I felt the warmth from outside already, but also the breeze. If there was a breeze, it was bearable. Without the air circulating, it was stuffy. After the seventh inning, Laura called me to say that the people in the seats next to theirs had left, so I joined them for the last inning and a half, passing through the pleasantly air conditioned club level one last time.

When the game ended, we had no need to stick around for any post-game ceremonies, so we were among the first ones on the first shuttle. Our driver, a rotund black woman, enjoyed getting us to the hotel as quickly -- yet safely, she assured us -- as possible. She floored it through yellow lights at intersections and took any opportunity to change lanes when other drivers left the smallest opening. After one adept maneuver, she laughed heartily. "I think she's cackling," I said to Laura. My thought was confirmed when we made another yellow light, and some passengers closer to the front commented as well. "Don't worry, honey," the driver said, "I'll get you there safe."

Laura, David and I had a drink in the bar area and ordered a plate of nachos before, just after midnight, they left. As I headed up stairs with my beer, I saw Karl Ravesh with one of his own, just back from the ballpark. On the television, Chris Berman anchored the post-game edition of Baseball Tonight.

In the morning, I saw Harold Reynolds at the ATM and Berman at the front desk, then again out in the driveway asking the bellhop for a car to the airport. Berman left in a private car while I waited for the cheaper shuttle. I should've taken a cab myself, expensing it on the magazine, instead of waiting for the van, which then stopped at the Hilton and was packed, nine men and a woman sitting three to a bench seat for the half-hour drive north.

Waiting at gate E7, I saw Tom Gordon's family come through and sit down in the waiting area, one of his sons holding the large dry-mounted placard with Tom's name, left over from the media day, I guessed. Until I was told I was sitting in the wrong seat, it appeared that I would be flying home next to one of the Gordon boys, but instead I had the bulkhead on the aisle, two rows in front of Reynolds and his wife.

Back in Newark, I chatted with Reynolds at baggage claim after I noticed his wife carrying my magazine, then went outside to see two undercover cops putting hand cuffs on a man posing as a taxi driver. It's one of the current concerns at airports: people who pose as drivers and offer to take passengers from the airport to their hotel for a fee around the same or cheaper than what a legitimate cab would cost. But when they get to your destination, they charge you much more than they quoted you and won't give you your luggage from the trunk until you pay up.

So from Kenny Mayne as I entered the hotel to a conversation with Harold Reynolds and a sting operation in progress, it was nonstop excitement for five days. Next year, Detroit, if I can handle the heat in an open ballpark.

I think I'll manage.

Hit It Here: All-Star Monday

All-Star Monday, July 12, 2004, Houston

They called it "Workout Day" on the schedule, the day when the players take batting practice at the ballpark and their children run around in miniature replicas of their fathers' jerseys. If I'd been so inclined, I could have taken the shuttle over to the Four Seasons for the managers' press conference where the announced the lineups, and then I could've stayed for the player availability in the ballroom. I could've walked up to any all-star sitting beneath his name and asked him questions -- provided I could get through the crowds of reporters who undoubtedly surrounded the bigger names like Bonds and Clemens.

But I didn't. What did I need quotes from the players for? I was there for the celebrity softball game, and I woke up Sunday morning, transcribed my interview tape and notes and e-mailed the file off to the magazine. After calling to check that it was in, I was free, off the hook unless they called with a question. No one did. This was my time.

I got myself some lunch and watched ESPN, read a little of The Teammates and boarded the bus, getting off at the Hilton and walking across the skybridge to the convention center to check out the FanFest. Like Bill Simmons, I could've spent a day there. I could've spent thousands, yet I managed to restrain myself. The minor-league cap section was alluring enough on its own, but I browsed through the retro jerseys and the all-star ones with the players' names and numbers. I managed to resist them all, and kept the chili dogs off my back too.

Although the convention center is probably half a mile long, I was forced to exit near the middle, rather than at the end which was much closer to the ballpark. The five-minute walk was probably my longest stretch in the midday heat, which reached 100 degrees on Monday. I was back inside the comfortable juicy coolness of Minute Maid Park at 3:30. My plan was to grab a snack and then hit the field for batting practice, but as I passed through the main press box to head upstairs, I glanced at the daily game notes and noticed a 4 p.m. press conference with Bud Selig and the 14 living members of the 500 home run club. It was in the room just behind the auxiliary press box in the mezzanine, so it wasn't far for me at all.

I took a seat in the next-to-last row on the right side, which had a view of the podium and the seats where the players would sit that was from the side. I didn't want to take a good seat from someone who needed to be there. Soon, I notice Willie Mays walks in behind me to the stairway off to the right from where all the players will emerge. Then comes Eddie Murray and Hank Aaron, who stops to talk with a woman sitting behind me. Reggie Jackson walks through, then Harmon Killebrew and Mike Schmidt before Willie McCovey is wheeled through. He has trouble walking these days. Ernie Banks heads the other way to see someone or get something.

Then the players come up from the clubhouses: Sammy Sosa, Ken Griffey Jr., Rafael Palmeiro and Barry Bonds. Only Bonds comes alone; the others have at least some of their sons in tow, dressed in either dad's team uniform or his all-star jersey. Palmeiro seems small compared to the other three, who also seem to be much bigger than the retired members of the club. We'll attribute that to better nutrition and conditioning for today's players, won't we?


More than 7,500 home runs in those chairs.

After ESPN's Karl Ravech and Commissioner Bud said some words at the podium, the players went to their assigned seats for interviews. I sat in for a bit on Mike Schmidt's session, figuring I'd throw out a question to him, but then decided I'd rather have pictures of this group than sound bites. So then I worked the room, squeezing between the crowds at the legends' tables for headshots.

I couldn't get anywhere near Barry Bonds' area, but I knew I'd have a chance to shoot him on the field. I spotted Phillies president Dave Montgomery, whom I've met before in Lakewood, and reintroduced myself because he's a nice, approachable team owner. I wouldn't have done the same with a George Steinbrenner type.

When the active players left for BP, I got the last of the legends and made my way back down to the field. There it was a madhouse. Reporters and cameramen everywhere. Peter Gammons and Kenny Mayne. Paul White from USA Today's Sports Weekly, Jayson Stark and Tim Kurkjian from ESPN. I shot like a photographer who had to sell dozens of photos in order to pay the rent this month.


Jim Thome makes sure he's heard.


Sammy's always smiling.


Jeff Kent's sons enjoyed the workout day.


Thome and Todd Helton watch a big fly.


Piazza goes deep.

Soon, the American League players emerged.


New York, New York.


Curt Schilling and his four kids settled in along the third-base line. Randy Johnson's son is on the left.


The Schilling clan.

So the Big Unit ambled over to chat with his former teammate and World Series co-MVP.


Even kneeling, he's tall.

Mariano Rivera gave an interview seated among his All-Star teammates and his own kids in foul territory behind third base.


Mariano Rivera speaks in Spanish.

It's nice to see the players with their children. You see a more human side to them than just the multi-millionaires who can play a game better than any of us can. These guys started out much like we did, playing in youth leagues in town and then in high school. Only they were gifted enough to be able to do it in college, in the minors, and now in the majors. They're the best in the world, yet I'm sure there's not one of them who wouldn't give it up to be a father. At least I'm sure that's what they'd say. But to see the little Riveras and Gordons walking around, you think of these guys as fathers and you don't hate the Yankees as much. At least not today.

I've been on fields before for batting practice. I've stood beside the cage when Piazza, Jeter and Nomar have taken their cuts. I've seen a home run from the vantage point of the hitter. To see that on a major-league level is something I'll never forget, and it never gets old. To stand near enough to feel the breeze from a Barry Bonds swing is sensational. At times it seems like virtual reality. As I was standing on the first-base side of the field, right near the line across which we reporters were not to step, I turned around at one point to see George Brett standing next to me. Todd Helton came up to say hello, then looked back to someone I took to be his brother. "Did you see who that was?" Todd asked him. "George Brett!"


It's a different game when you're this close.

When I spotted Blue Jays manager Carlos Tosca, I asked about his nephew Daniel, who was with Lakewood when I covered the team. Dan's now in the Diamondbacks system with a second child and I told Carlos to say hello for me. As I left, he introduced me to his son, who looked as excited as I was to be there. Walking back over to the NL side, Mark Loretta stopped at the top of the dugout steps to sign some autographs, indicating to the fans in the stands that they could toss their baseballs to him. Two people went at the same time, but not even an all-star infielder can handle both of those throws. He grabbed the higher one, near his chest, but the other was too low and bounced through his legs and back to me. I tossed it back to Loretta, who appreciated not having to run after some fan's errant toss.

I took pictures of Ichiro, of Kent's kids, one of whom posed and smiled for me. I spotted Barry Bonds and Jason Giambi talking on the other side of the cage and got a picture of them through the netting that just begs for a joke caption that includes the acronym BALCO, or at least alludes to it. "Hey, Barry, your head's looking smaller!" "Thanks, Jason! How's that 'parasite' treating you!"


Insert BALCO joke here.

The media was only allowed an hour on the field for BP on Monday, so I trudged back up to the mezzanine seating for the lesser press to watch the home-run derby batting practice. David Ortiz of the Red Sox hit the rafters of the roof a couple of times, then nailed it again during the derby and lobbied -- unsuccessfully -- for a home run, but it wasn't, according to the ground rules. I watched the derby from just above the ESPN porch set that overlooked the outfield. Below me, I noticed Bill Simmons in his Manny Ramirez t-shirt watching from John Kruk's seat on the set.


Opening the roof.

They introduced the 500 home run club to the theme from The Natural, a composition that never gets old when used for the best in baseball. Barry Bonds was the first to hit in the derby, and before the first pitch, the catcher stood up and called for a ball outside, as if to issue an intentional walk. I so called that. I thought about that on the flight down, and at that moment I regretted not mentioning it to Laura or someone, anyone who could corroborate my claim that such a move would be hilarious.


Moments after Tejada's winning blast.

The derby was a spectacular show, and after the first round, Milo Hamilton, who played M.C. down on the field, said, "You thought the first round was something, let's see how the balls fly out of here when we take the roof off this place!" I looked up and noticed that, indeed, the roof was rolling back, so quietly and effortlessly. The windows to my right out in faraway dead-center field were sliding back and the deep, deep blue night sky was coming through. When Miguel Tejada won it with his final blast that set off fireworks out in left field, I immediately turned to the door and headed for the shuttle bus back to the hotel. I wanted to drop off my camera bag before the gala at the aquarium.

At the gala, I became skeptical that the likes of Roger Clemens or Alex Rodriguez would really show up because it wasn't like the other, smaller parties I'd been to so far. This one was open to more people, and lots of fans and kids strolled through the backlit displays of marine life and up the stairs to the second- and third-floor balconies and bars. The whole thing was catered, with food at several locations, alcohol at more, and tables out on the balconies and inside what was either a ballroom or conference room. Out at a table on the second-floor balcony, I spotted George F. Will and realized he was talking to actor Robert Wuhl. Across the table sat Bud Selig. What a group. It is only later, as I stood at the wall of the third-floor balcony and looked down over the main entrance to the building, that I realized that maybe the biggest stars would show up: there, dressed in black and talking on his cell phone, was Roger Clemens, his wife and two cops by his side. They waited for the train to pass -- a tiny, amusement park train that carries visitors around the aquarium -- and then walked inside. I ran into him later as I walked back down to the second floor just as he was leaving, saying, "See you guys tomorrow." Matthew Modine continued to stalk me, and I later saw another familiar face eating at one of the standing tables in the main buffet room. I stole a glance as I passed, but he caught my eye and returned my inquisitive look with a trademark glare. "Yep," I thought to myself, "That's Will Clark."

The aquarium has an actual bar down on the first floor, and again I spotted the Sports Guy as well as ESPN's Dave Campbell. As midnight passed, the bar TV on ESPN, Baseball Tonight began its live broadcast from outside. Later I found where they were, but I've stood beside ESPN broadcasts before, so I turned around and made one last pass along the grounds. The crowd surrounding a tall blond athlete led me to Curt Schilling, and when I returned to the main entrance, he followed. Then I saw, sitting at a table, Joe Morgan holding court with a couple of friends. Simmons was there again too, and he took note of Schilling, mentioning it in his column.

Unlike the night before, I didn't have to go back to bed. I wasn't as tired or exhausted. I got on the elevator with Peter Gammons, who looked ready to curl up and fall asleep right on the carpeted floor of the elevator. I stayed up a little longer and had a snack, watching the ESPN highlights of the home run derby. Then I got a good night's sleep. Tomorrow was All-Star day.