Day 3: Philadelphia freedom

Before I started this weekend endeavor, I had my doubts. I wondered if my enthusiasm would hold through the weekend. As much as I wanted to take the weekend and see three major-league ballgames in three different ballparks, there was a part of me on Friday that just wanted to go home and splay myself out on the couch to read some magazines or pop in a DVD. But as that 7 train pulled into the Willets Point stadium and I saw the high definition screen outside Shea Stadium announcing, MERENGUE NIGHT IS SOLD OUT, I got the feeling that this weekend would be nothing but fun; there would be no funk.

As I crawled into bed at 2:30 a.m. after Matt and I had convened again with Brad to discuss the game over a few pints, I figured 9 a.m. would come too soon. Yet when the alarm went off and I pulled myself out of bed, there was no dragging of feet. Matt and I watched Lance Armstrong pull into Paris and then I tossed my bags into the car and returned to the interstate.

Recent world events have prompted an increase in security, particularly in the various means of transportation, so as I pass through Maryland, Delaware, Pennsylvania and New Jersey, I am greeted with various variations of the same message flashing on the overhead LED displays: REPORT SUSPICIOUS ACTIVITY. In Delaware, they use the state's postal abbreviation so that the sign read, DE TERRORIST TIP LINE, followed by the phone number.

I keep my eyes peeled throughout the drive, but the only suspicious activity I may or may not have encountered was not worthy of a phone call: a car with New York plates going the speed limit, a BMW cruising along below 70 mph, an SUV with a "Save the Trees" bumper sticker, a New Jersey driver leaving appropriate distance between the car in front of it, a hybrid car with a George W. Bush decal. These things aren't the usual activity from such drivers, but they don't seem to be threats to national security.

As I suspected, the drive takes two and a half hours, so I exit I-95 just after 1 p.m., find the parking lot that will give me easy access to New Jersey after the game, and buy my ticket with enough time to spare that I make it inside in time for the National Anthem, the first time in three days that I've not missed the first pitch because I'm still en route to the ballpark. I enter on the first-base side but must walk around to left field to get to my seat, so I turn right to walk down Ashburn Alley, the outfield plaza packed with concession stands, standing-room views and a Phillies timeline posted on the back of the brick batters eye in center field. Despite the recent comments by Peter Gammons and John Smoltz, just two of the esteemed baseball men who have come forward to pan the ballpark as a place to play, it remains a fabulous venue in which to watch a game. I ask for a seat in the shade, not wanting to commit to the sun on a hot day. For $22 I am placed in left field, in prime home run territory. As it turns out, I am just outside the edge of the overhang that would've provided the shade I asked for, but it didn't matter. I spend about an inning and a half in my seat; the rest of the time, I wander the ballpark. It's conducive to such perambulations. The wide, airy concourses might as well be enclosed and air conditioned, the difference between those areas and the open sunshine were so great. I'd also guess that 90 percent of the space around the park includes chest-high shelves on which fans can place their just-bought cheesesteaks and watch and eat while they stand and watch the game. If you wanted to get exercise at the ballpark, you could buy the cheapest ticket available and spend the entire game walking laps around the park without ever losing view of the field except for the brief half-minute it would take you to walk behind the scoreboard and Harry K's restaurant in left-center.

The gripe Gammons, Smoltz, et. al. have, though, is somewhat legitimate. Pop flies can end up eight rows deep in the outfield. Power alleys are chip shots. Tomas Perez, playing shortstop, goes back on a pop up -- as any shortstop would in this case -- but because left field is so small, Pat Burrell is playing so shallow that he calls Perez off. When Perez circles around to return to the infield, he's closer to the warning track than he is to the infield dirt.

They're clever there in Philly. As the public address announcer finishes off the day's lineups with the umpires, the theme from Law & Order serves as background music. When San Diego's pitching coach walks out to the mound with catcher Ramon Hernandez for a conference with starter Brian Lawrence, the choice is the theme from Three's Company.

Sometimes it's lonely going to ballgames alone. If you go to see a specific player -- say on a night Pedro Martinez is pitching, or in the minors, to catch a top prospect -- then you have a purpose. You can keep score and then pay particular attention to Pedro's innings on the mound or the prospect's at bats; use the other innings for trips to the beer cart or the bathroom. This is why I felt the need to view Shea Stadium in a different way on my Friday night trip. I was there just to kick off the three parks in three days weekend, not for any other reason. But as a Mets fan, it was easy to cheer and high-five the strangers around me on big plays like Carlos Beltran's three-run home run. In Washington, I sat with a friend and conversed with his fellow season-ticket holders around us. But the energy of the crowd inspired me to stand and cheer when a Nationals pitcher got two strikes on a Houston hitter, even though a Washington loss would be better for the Mets' position in the standings. For one night, I allowed myself to enjoy the atmosphere of a division rival. It made the ballgame more enjoyable.

The night before going to Philadelphia, I wondered how the fans would be. Going in, I expected Citizens Bank Park to rank third in enthusiasm behind Shea and RFK. The city is known to be passionate about its professional teams ... mostly when they're winning. These days, it's an Eagles town first and foremost. Until the lockout, the Flyers were probably No. 2 among the four teams. The 76ers may have fallen to last now that they're a few years removed from Larry Brown and the finals appearance against L.A. The Phillies fluctuate throughout the season. They're higher on the list in April, when they're in contention; if they fall eight or 10 games back by the time Eagles camp opens, they also tend to become the city's second sports interest. Among 35,322 fans on an 83-degree sunny Sunday (the smallest crowd of the weekend by 7,000, but bringing the total crowds of which I've been a part to 128,275), I do experience moments of Phanaticism. It doesn't reach the levels I felt in New York or Washington, but when Ryan Howard launches a double (mere feet from a home run, from what I can see) to left-center in his first at bat, then doubles into the right-field corner to deliver a run his second time up, I stand and cheer. Sure, it's probably more for his days as a BlueClaw, but I still find myself involved in the game.

As I said, I don't sit long in my left-field seats. The breeze is nice but I still feel like I'm baking in the sun -- and getting an uneven tan with the sun directly to my right. I get up to walk along the third-base concourse, stopping into the team store before catching another half-inning standing at the back of the seats, in the shade, on the walkway. Again it becomes clear that when this stadium was designed, the fans were the first thought; the pitchers, clearly, last. I continue out towards center field and Ashburn Alley again, passing the left-field gate and looking out on the sea of cars, the parking lot where Veterans Stadium once loomed. It's the first time I've been to this south Philadelphia sporting complex since a January night to watch Notre Dame play Villanova in basketball at the Wachovia Center. Now all that surrounds the four arenas -- Citizens Bank Park, Lincoln Financial Field, Wachovia Center and the small Spectrum -- are parking lots and warehouses. If it weren't for the new stadia and their restaurants, there wouldn't even be a place to eat. The biggest drawback to this beautiful ballpark is that it's in the middle of nowhere and can never rank with PNC Park in Pittsburgh or Camden Yards in Baltimore among the best places to spend a day and catch a game.

I pass again by the statue of Richie Asburn beating a throw to the bag, I suppose. I climb some stairs to the bleacher section perched atop the concession stands beneath the big Liberty Bell scaffold that lights up and sways whenever a Phillie goes yard. Here I can look down upon Ashburn Alley while getting a far-away view of the field, perhaps somewhat like the vantage point those rooftop fans around Wrigley Field see. When a spot along the railing below, the one overlooking the visitors' bullpen, opens up, I slid in, resting on the shelf beside a kid chowing down on a carton of seasoned fries from one of the counters behind me. I watch Clay Hensley warm up before he pitches the final two innings of this 5-1 Padres loss. The beauty of this spot is the closeness to the game. I can discern the stitching on Hensley's jersey, I can hear the zip of the ball as he brings his arm around and releases the orb at 80 mph to the catcher 60 feet to my -- to our -- left. Perhaps best of all, I can hear what Hensley hears, that being the taunts and jeers of the famously harsh Philly fans. Just as Hensley gets up to loosen up, Scott Linebrink also emerges from the bench beneath our feet. He stretches his legs, then uses the elastic band strapped to the railing to loosen up his arms and shoulders. "That's right, Linebrink, warm up!" shouts one fan perched behind me up near the bleachers. "Make sure you get that goatee nice and loose!" The comment makes no sense, but therein lies its hilarity. I study Linebrink's face for any sign of acknowledgement, finding none. But I like to think he heard it and was amused by it too.

As I spend the day exploring the ballpark more than sitting still to take in the game, I feel as if I am in a familiar place. I glance at faces looking for signs of recognition; I have this feeling that somewhere in this crowd is someone I know. This sensation, I later decide, stems from two things. The first is the ballpark's proximity to New Jersey -- just over the Walt Whitman Bridge. No doubt there are a lot of Garden State Phillies fans here. The other is derived from the familiar t-shirts and hats, either from a Jersey Shore vacation/recreation town or the Lakewood affiliate of the Phillies. I'm wearing a red BlueClaws hat myself to go along with my Gavin Floyd Phillies t-shirt. So as I stand along the bullpen, watching both the game and Hensley's warm-up routine, I'm not startled -- perhaps I'm even expecting it -- when a hand rests on my right shoulder. I turn around to see Hal, a BlueClaws employee I know from my days covering the team. In that moment I'm amazed more at my expectation of running into someone I know than I am at actually seeing such a person. We spend an inning or so chatting about the game, the ballpark, the BlueClaws before we split up for separate sustinence; now that the line has virtually disappeared at the Italian ice stand, I make my first in-park purchase of the entire weekend and get perhaps the best bargain at any of the three venues when a decent-sized cup of cherry ice is just $3.75. Even my small (or "like it") sized cup of Cold Stone ice cream cost more than $4. I take the ice up to the bleacher perch again to enjoy both the coolness inside my body and the complimentary breeze outside. By the time I'm finished, my tongue has taken on the same shade as the hat and shirt I'm wearing, that of Philly and BlueClaw red.

It's not long before Billy Wagner comes in and shuts down San Diego with perfect ninth inning and I'm scattering with the fans out to the surrounding parking lots. I'm quick to the car despite emerging from a gate behind right field rather than along the first base/right field line and losing my bearings. I walk left up the road at first before realizing that this doesn't feel right though there is some familiarity because I'm heading to the lot where I parked for a game last September (and I had been hoping to find again on my way in today). I turn the other way and head toward an intersection that I soon see is Pattison Ave., where I did indeed park in a moderate sized lot that does not have a bottleneck at the exit. I am out of there before I get to find out whether one forms or not. Thankful for the small but discernable signs pointing to I-76, I'm back in New Jersey in no time, cruising up 295 and then 130 to avoid the Turnpike traffic. When I do join the toll road at exit 8A, I'm north of the congestion and find myself coming through the door to the apartment a mere two hours after the game ended.

Exhausted, I make dinner and watch TV and manage to pound out the account of Saturday's visit to D.C., unsure exactly of how I am able to stay away until midnight. But it was worth it to relive the day before and record an account of this wonderful weekend while the images and sensations are still clear in my mind. My doubts about my stamina, my endurance for a three-park road trip in three days did not surface after Friday's initial questions on the way to Queens. The proximity of the three cities to one another and the comfort of a bed in Matt's house rather than a lifeless hotel room certainly made the trip more bearable, not to mention the camaraderie the three of us shared over burgers and beer and more beer.

I'm happy, too, that I stuck to my budget and limited my expenditures to tickets and higher-quality meals and drinks outside of the ballpark concessions. Before embarking on the trip, I told Casey that, other than the games for which I already have tickets, I think it's just minor-league ballparks for the rest of the summer. These major-league prices can take a toll on your wallet.

My passion for the game is as strong as ever, so I suppose it's no surprise to me that I've already looked at which teams are at home this Saturday, when Casey's away again. I'm happy to get in as many games as I can now, because once December rolls around, when we're two months removed from the World Series, in the dead period between the end of the college football season and awaiting the bowl games, I'll be itching for springtime and the start of another baseball season.

World Series Game 2: Learning something about myself

Red Sox 6, Cardinals 2

How can Boston not win the Series? This Curt Schilling story is a tale of athletic heroism straight out of Hollywood. It's like Roy Hobbs rounding the bases as his jersey gets bloodier with every step, only without the sexy circumstances causing the injury. These postseason starts on his bum ankle clearly make the start of the 2005 season a target date for Schilling's return from surgery, but will he be able to make it? Major surgery on one of the most important parts of a right-handed pitcher's body seems like it would need more than five months (the time from November 1, the first day after a potential Game 7, to April 1, just days before Opening Day) to make a full recovery including rehab and rebuilding strength and stamina to be able to take the ball to start a game. It means I'll have some big decisions to make when deciding my fantasy baseball keepers, is all. But we're not there yet.

Last night, Schilling became Greg Maddux. His stuff wasn't vintage Schilling, it wasn't as powerful as it usually is. He won, as Peter Gammons pointed out, by controling his location and never throwing the same pitch in the same situations to the Cardinals hitters. In two games, the Red Sox have committed eight errors and left 21 men on base. Those numbers would usually mean an 0-2 deficit, not a 2-0 lead. But Boston's ahead because, in Game 1, they overcame those errors at the plate, scoring 11 runs. In Game 2, they won because they bore down and got the outs despite the miscues. Look at Bill Mueller -- two outs, he commits an error, then Mark Bellhorn does on the next play, but then the next batter hits a shot to third that Mueller fields cleanly and takes to the bag for the final forceout. Perseverance. Determination. Execution. That's what's carrying these Red Sox.

Today is the 18th anniversary of Mookie Wilson's ground ball through the legs of Bill Buckner. I was 10 at the time, and in bed when I heard my father's screams from downstairs. I missed the actual play, but I was out of bed and down the stairs in time to see the countless replays. What a lot of people forget -- or never knew in the first place -- is that the play, while it lost the game for the Red Sox, didn't blow a lead. That had already happened; the game was tied when Mookie came to bat. Second, Bob Stanley wasn't covering first base and part of the reason Buckner missed the ball is because he was already moving toward first, hoping to beat the fleet Mookie to the bag -- which was also unlikely. And, of course, just like the Cubs against the Marlins last year, Boston still had Game 7 it could have won. Just as Steve Bartman didn't lose the NLCS for Chicago last year, Buckner didn't lose the World Series for the Red Sox in 1986. Buckner may have cost them Game 6 (and Bartman, at most, cost the Cubs one lone, single out in an inning), but he didn't cost them three other games. In fact, he had two hits in Game 7.

Those were the early days of my interest in baseball and the Mets. They're still the only team I root for, from Opening Day through their final game, with an excitement and passion that rivals my feelings for Notre Dame. For me, nothing tops my allegiance to the Irish, because I spent four years there living the experience. But only the Mets come close. I follow the Devils but take only a passing interest during the season; the playoffs, as everyone knows, are when the NHL gets exciting. I have no NFL ties nearly as strong and I loathe the NBA. I rooted for the Nets out of New Jersey pride more than anything. Now that Bruce Rattner has bought the team and is scuttling it to make some money before he moves them to Brooklyn and loses a ton, I hope it all blows up in his face. I haven't been to a game or supported the NBA in any way in nine or 10 years, and I don't intend to start anytime soon.

But I've discovered something this postseason: I have an American League team. I have friends who purport to back a second team in addition to their primary squad, usually choosing one from the opposite league to call his NL or AL team, depending on which applies. While I was hoping any of the three AL playoff participants not from New York this season would reach the World Series, and I was prepared to root for any of them in that quest, but it has occurred to me, particularly as I've watched these two games against the Cardinals, that I am a Red Sox fan. This isn't simply a World Series choice; it's bigger. While I'll root for the Mets in any potential Boston-Queens matchups, in all other instances, I'm an immigrant to Red Sox Nation.

If the Red Sox come through with these last two victories, I won't celebrate like a long-suffering fan. I haven't lived through the losses the way New Englanders have. But I'll appreciate the championship as a fan of baseball and of history (and baseball history) and of a different game in 1918 -- before the Black Sox, before the Babe became a slugger and rewrote the record book and the way the game is perceived and played. And, most of all, I'll be happy for all those Red Sox fans.

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.