"I'm surprised they didn't bring in Ernie Banks for the service," I muttered to Jeff Glebe.

"How come?"

"It's a beautiful day. Let's bury two."

Father Scanlon was the last of four ecumenical speakers, following Father Jorge Guerrero, who had spoken in Spanish for fifteen minutes. It looked as if Scanlon was out to break Guerrero's record, but he finally wound down and left the stage, stopping to embrace Sandi Thorson as the cameras clicked.

Tiny Washington and David Sloane took his place. Tiny looked embarrassed, Sloane composed.

"I knew Sultan Sanchez for thirteen years," Tiny said, too close to the microphone, which squealed. "I played with him and I played against him. He always played hard. He was a leader on every team he was with. He taught pride to the young players. He also helped us remember to enjoy what we did. No matter what was going on, Sultan could make us smile.

"Steve Thorson was a competitor. He played with intensity and never gave less than one hundred percent whenever he was on the mound. He was the heart of this team. He made us play our best because winning was all that mattered to him. He was respected by every hitter in the league.

"You all loved them, too, so I guess you know what all of us guys on the team are feeling. We will do the best we can to honour their memory, but we will miss them, on and off the field."

There was scattered applause, quickly shushed, from some fans who forgot where they were. Then Sloane stepped to the microphone.

"Let us pray," he began, and heads bowed around the infield, a ragged collective movement.

"It's a prayer wave," I whispered. Glebe shushed me.

Sloane shut his eyes and raised his arms to the sky.

"Lord. You have taken two of our brothers from us. You know why You had to do it. It is not our place to ask why. Thy will be done. They are not truly gone because they live on in all of us.

"We stand before You not in sorrow, not to weep, but to thank You for letting them be with us for a time, for enriching our lives.

"We knew them well. We knew Pedro Sanchez and Steven Thorson as teammates. We knew them in joy and in sorrow. We knew them as brothers. We were soldiers together in a daily battle. And we will not shirk the battle because they have left us.

"Lord, we dedicate ourselves to finish what our brothers helped us begin. And we will dedicate our victory to them. We will prevail. We will triumph over our foes and become World Champions and dedicate our championship to their memories."

"Yeah, but where are they going to send the World Series rings," whispered Jeff. I fought back a giggle and Sloane, incredibly, began to sing.

"Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord!"

Ten thousand voices joined his as the airplane banked over right field.

"And here I was hoping for 'Onward Christian Shortstops,'" I said.

"It always happens at funerals," I explained to Jeff on the way to the reception. "Even real ones. My dad's a minister, so I've been to a lot of them. I always get the giggles."

"You cry at weddings, I take it."

"And in movies, at hockey games, tractor pulls, and shopping centre openings. It's only funerals that make me laugh."

"This one would have made a corpse laugh," Jeff said. "I wonder what Father Guerrero said?"

"Probably that Sultan's giving 110 percent in heaven."

The reception, which was private, was in the Batter's Box, the bar and banquet area of the stadium. The lineup snaked down a concrete stairwell that smelled faintly of hot dogs, popcorn, and beer. Everyone looked a bit odd dressed in their Sunday best. Just as we came to a bend in the staircase, Sam Craven tapped me on the shoulder.

"I was hoping I would see you," he said. "It's a terrible business, isn't it? That was a nice piece you did on Sandi. I'm sure she appreciated it."

"Thanks, Sam." I introduced Jeff. "When did you get in from New York?"

"Just now. I've been getting Steve's affairs wound up. Talking to insurance agents, things like that. Tragic business."

"Who gets the money?" Jeff asked.

"Most of it goes to Sandi. His parents inherit some, too. I had a small policy on his life, of course, as did the Titans. But they'll have to pay the remainder of his contract to his estate."

"Would they have had a policy on Sanchez, too?"

"I would imagine so."

We had made it to the Batter's Box. I let Craven go in first. I wanted to watch him go through the receiving line. Ted Ferguson faked it, shaking his hand warmly, but passed him on quickly to Father Scanlon and turned his attention to us.

"Kate. Jeff." He nodded, then took my hand in both of his. "Thank you so much for coming. What did you think of David's comments? Very moving, I thought."

"Indeed," I said. "Very inspirational."

There was a small commotion just ahead of me. As Craven leaned to embrace Sandi Thorson, she twisted out of his arms.

"I can take care of myself," she hissed at him. "You just take your cut and leave me alone."

Craven glanced quickly around to see if the exchange had been overheard, then smiled and moved on. It was my turn.

"Are you all right?"

"Just stand here for a minute, would you?"

"Of course."

"I hate that man so much. Why did he have to come?"

"It would have looked funny if he didn't, Sandi. He was Steve's agent, after all."

"He's horrible."

Surprised at her vehemence, I changed the subject.

"Will you be leaving Toronto now?"

"I'm flying to California tonight. The funeral is tomorrow."

"What about Stevie?"

"He went home with my parents last night. I didn't think he should have to go through this."

"I think you're right."

"It's hard enough for me. I don't know what I'm going to do, but I've got my mom and dad. They'll help."

"And you have lots of friends."

"Baseball friends. They forget pretty quickly. There will be a new pitcher. And a new wife. But some will stay friends, I hope."

I started to move on, but she stopped me.

"I wanted to thank you for the article you wrote yesterday. My parents thought it was real nice."

"You're welcome. Take care of yourself. Let me know where you end up. I'd like to keep in touch."

"I will," she said, then suddenly, clumsily, embraced me, embarrassing us both a little.

Sultan's wife Dolores, whom I had never met, was lovely. Tiny and dark, she had extraordinary eyes and a great deal of style. Her English was not very good, but her teenaged son Eduardo helped interpret. He was tall and handsome, very like his father. The Titans had signed him to a minor-league contract early in the season. They each shook my hand formally.

I declined coffee and cookies and went up to the press box. The ground crew had dismantled the dais and taken up the chairs and were rolling the batting cage into position. A few Tigers were waiting for early batting practice.

There was no one else around but the technicians setting up for that night's broadcast. It was very peaceful. The players on the field were horsing around in the sunshine. Life goes on. Many of the mourners who had just left the park would be back in a couple of hours, dressed in jeans and Titan sweat shirts, eating hot dogs and drinking beer. The voices that had sung hymns would be screaming at the umpires.

In this philosophical mood it didn't take long to write my piece on the memorial service. The team provided transcripts of the speeches. I even managed to quote David Sloane without mocking.

When I finished, I rested my head on my arms.

"Sleeping on the job?"

It was Moose's voice, and his strong hands massaging my neck and shoulders.

"That's heaven. Never stop." I felt like Elwy. If only I could purr. "You may be saving a life here, Moose. I'll do what I can to get you the Order of Canada."

He laughed and dug his knuckles into the really sore part between my shoulder blades. I groaned.

"Time's up. I've got work to do," he said, giving me a last hearty thump.

"Maybe it'll be a short one tonight."

"I wouldn't bet the rent on it."

Chapter 21.

The game wasn't short, but it was so much fun that no one cared. A day that had started in tears and sombre reflection ended in jubilation. The Titans were winning 143 and still at bat in the bottom of the eighth when Jeff Glebe leaned over to check on a fine point of sportswriting.

"Does this qualify as a trouncing?"

"Not yet. You need a twelve-run lead for a trouncing."

"A drubbing?"

"Yeah, you only need ten for a drubbing."

Every Titan had at least one hit. Tiny Washington, David Sloane, Joe Kelsey, and even Alex Jones had hit home runs. Kelsey also had a triple and a single. He was due up next, with two out, and looking for a double, if Wise got on base.

The count was full, but Owl fouled off pitches to stay alive. He finally tapped a single between first and second. The crowd was excited, aware how close Kelsey was to hitting for the cycle: a single, double, triple, and home run in the same game. He would be the first Titan ever to do it.

He hit the first pitch hard to left field. It looked like a home run, but hooked foul at the last moment. There was relieved laughter from the fans. They wanted the double.

He gave it to them on the second pitch, a ball hit solidly into the gap in left centre. The fans stood and applauded for so long that Kelsey was forced to tip his cap, embarrassed. Dummy Doran signalled for the left fielder to give him the ball and pocketed it to give to Preacher.

The cheering finally stopped and the game resumed. No one was disappointed when Tiny Washington grounded out to end the inning. And when the Tigers went down in order in the ninth I even had half an hour left to my first deadline.

Downstairs in the clubhouse it was as if a spell had been broken. The memorial service had closed a door. The mourning was over. And the one-sided win had put the fun back in the game.

"Bring on the A's!" shouted Costello, wearing a towel and waving a beer in the air. It was hard to hear him over the music booming from the tape deck in his locker. Bruce Springsteen.

"Turn it down, Bony," I yelled. "I can't hear you."

"Bring on the playoffs! The season's over!"

He was right. It was his last start.

"Not too shabby-twenty-three wins! That's a two and a three. Two-enty the-ree. Whee hee!"

He'd drawn a small crowd of reporters, all laughing at his antics. He downed his beer and danced to the cooler to get another. He came back with three and jumped up on his stool.

"I'm going to party tonight," he said. "But first, I will accept questions from the media."

He turned down the music, but it didn't make much difference, there was so much yelling going on around us.

"You want to know the secret of my success? Food! All my career they've been telling me to lose weight. This year I just ate. Burgers. Fries. Ice cream. Pizza. Spaghetti. Lasagna. Manicotti. Canelloni! Gnocchi! And vino! Gallons of vino!"

His accent grew Italian as he talked, and he began to wave his arms around. By the end of his list, he was almost operatic.

"Eating to excess is the secret of my success!"

His teammates burst into applause. He bowed deeply, then turned his back and bowed again, dropping his towel.

There was no point asking a serious question. I went in search of more sensible folk.

Joe Kelsey was sitting in front of his locker, a huge smile on his face. He shook his head as I approached him.