I ran into Archie-Mark-Griffin in the hall with Flakey Patterson.

"Kate, this is great. You've got to see this."

Griffin handed me a piece of paper. It looked like a press release, except it was hand-printed. At the top of the page was a rubber-stamped impression of the logo Flakey had designed for himself: a flamingo standing on its right leg, clutching a baseball in its left claw. The heading was in red.

"FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE: PATTERSON VOWS TO WIN."

"What now, Flakey?"

He smiled enigmatically and made the child's sign of silence, locking his lips and throwing away an imaginary key. I went back to his release.

"Phil Patterson, the left-handed genius of the Toronto Titans pitching staff, has taken dramatic action to ensure the team's clinching of the American League Eastern Division Championship.

"He has vowed to keep silent and maintain a partial fast until the crown is won. He will consume nothing but Gatorade, which he needs to balance electrolytes in his body.

"In a statement released yesterday, Patterson said, 'There is a sinister plot to keep the Titans from our destiny, and it is time for the lefthanders to take charge. Behind my inspirational leadership, the Toronto Titans will not be left behind. We will be left on top.'

"In addition to his usual arsenal of magic pitches and mind-boggling mantras, Patterson has received a powerful talisman from a faithful fan.

"'Although I am opposed to maiming of animals for human folly, I am proud to carry this amulet,' he said. 'It is the left hind foot of a rare and holy Himalayan hare, dead of natural causes after a long life as the companion of a Buddhist monk. I will go nowhere without it.'

"After the Titans clinch their division, Patterson will break his fast with imported champagne."

"Nice, Flakey, really nice," I said, folding the paper and slipping it into my pocket. "I'll use this in my notebook."

He made a steeple of his fingers and bowed.

Chapter 5.

The press floor was a circus. Every two-bit newspaper and radio station in Ontario had someone covering the last week of the season. Winners attract attention, and the Titans had become the home team for an entire province, even the country. Major papers from Halifax to Vancouver were phoning in requests for credentials. The big-shot baseball writers from the States were starting to arrive. It was the only pennant race left in the league. The Oakland A's had won the Western Division Championship the previous week.

I wolfed down some lasagna and salad with a couple of reporters from Ottawa and a runner for the NBC television crew, then escaped to the relative peace of the press box. There was permanent space assigned to each of the regulars in the front row. Mine was right behind home plate, with Moose Greer to my left and Bill Sanderson from the World on my right.

The stadium was buzzing well before game time. The corporate boxes just below me were full of high rollers eating cold cuts and drinking Scotch. In the stands the common folk were eating bad hot dogs, drinking flat beer and having at least as much fun.

The festive mood lasted until the second pitch of the game, a home run for the Red Sox leadoff hitter. There were enough Boston fans in the park to raise a little ruckus, a joyful and gloating noise. The Red Sox were out of the race, but it didn't stop them from wanting to be spoilers.

Things never got better that chilly night. The Red Sox had a 40 lead by the time the Titans came to bat (and went down in order). Doc Dudley, the Titan starter, was gone by the third. The usually reliable fielders made three errors. To make things worse, the out-of-town scoreboard showed that the Yankees were beating the Indians. I began writing my story for the first edition, keeping one eye on the game. Watching them blow it made me bad-tempered.

So did writing the first-edition story. On Friday's early deadline it had to be in as soon as the game was over, so there was no chance for analysis, no telling what plays will be key. So I stuck to descriptions of how each team had scored their runs. Some hacks write that kind of stuff for a living, but it's nothing but space filler for me, to be replaced later by something with more colour and bite.

When the last out was made-Sultan Sanchez's third strikeout of the game with men on base-I sent the story to the home computer over the phone and checked to make sure it had arrived intact. I promised the night editor my next story, with quotes, by midnight.

That only gave me an hour, but when I got to the clubhouse it was locked. Angry reporters were arguing with the security guard, an amiable retiree who took the abuse stolidly.

"What's going on?"

"It seems that Mr. O'Brien is giving one of his fatherly pep talks," said Toby King. "The team is evidently in need of inspiration, so we're shut out."

"Shit."

The door to the dressing room wasn't very effectively soundproofed, and sound of the angry voices could be heard. In a few minutes, a clubhouse kid opened it and we filed in, adjusting our faces to a properly funereal expression. A losing dressing room is a minefield of recriminations and emotion, especially late in the season with so much on the line. It wouldn't do to smile. Someone might think you weren't taking the game seriously.

I went into O'Brien's office with the herd of reporters and waited for someone else to ask the first question. Red hadn't got his nickname from the colour of his hair, what there was left of it. He had what players call "the red ass," a fierce temper. One of the out-of-town writers broke the silence.

"What went wrong, Red?"

"What the fuck do you think went wrong? The pitchers couldn't pitch and the fielders couldn't field. So goddamn glad to be home they just blew it. Probably left it at home in bed with their fucking wives. If these guys want to win this thing, they'd better start paying fucking attention. They're paid enough to keep themselves in the game."

"The Yankees won tonight."

"I am aware that the fucking Yankees fucking won. I'm not fucking blind."

A radio reporter moved around the desk to stick a microphone in front of him.

"Get that fucking thing out of my face. So we lost tonight. Big fucking deal. Even if the god damn Yankees don't lose another game, all we have to win is four more. That's so hard? That's impossible? Don't break your ankles jumping off the bandwagon, you fucking assholes."

He punctuated his last statement by firing a beer into the wastebasket. It shattered. There were no further questions. We were barely out of the office when he slammed the door and more crashes and bangs came from behind it. I stuck my head in the equipment manager's office.

"I hope you're ready for a long night. The boss is trashing his office again."

"And me with a hot lady waiting at home."

"Hey, what's more important? Sex or the pennant race?"

I went into the clubhouse, looking for Alex Jones. He'd won a spot on This Week in Baseball, but not for the reason he would have liked. In the fifth inning, with one out and men on first and second, he had fielded a routine ground ball and stepped on second base for what should have been the first half of a double play. But instead of relaying the ball to Tiny Washington, he tossed it over his shoulder to the second-base umpire, thinking that the inning was over, and started to run off the field. The umpire, of course, let the ball roll into centre field and the alert runner scampered home.

I found him at his locker, where he was denying any knowledge of the English language. He then put his towel around his neck and walked to the shower, winking at me as he passed.

The dressing room was half empty. Dudley wasn't there, nor was Sanchez. The game's biggest culprits were waiting us out in the trainer's room, which was off limits to the press.

I had neither the time nor the inclination to hang around, so I collected some quotes from Gloves Gardiner about the game Dudley had pitched. Gloves never ducks the press.

I wrote and filed my story at the ballpark and was home by one, but was nowhere near ready for bed. One of the drawbacks of the job is the time it takes to wind down after writing, at an hour when most people are asleep. I was checking out late movies when there was a knock on the door.

It was Sally Parkes with a bottle of wine in hand.

"Hi, kiddo. Welcome home. I waited up."

"Bless your heart, Sal."

"What happened out there tonight? We watched the game."

"Who knows. How's T.C.?"

"Inconsolable. And on top of the loss, his wretched father cancelled out again this weekend. They were supposed to go to both games."

"I can get tickets for him. What happened to Roger?"

"He says he had to go to a strategy conference in Windsor, but I suspect it has something to do with the researcher from the Auto Workers he's currently screwing."

"Don't worry. I'll call in the morning. Two seats?"

"That would be great. I really appreciate it, Kate."

"I'll steer some players in his direction for an autograph if you get there early."

I like doing things for T.C. He's a nice, shy kid who hasn't had a lot of breaks. He's small for his age, wears glasses, and is a target for all the bullies. If he can get some prestige because he knows some ballplayers I'm delighted.

Sally opened the wine while I changed out of my work uniform and into sweats. We put the wine on the coffee table and, as we had so many nights before, curled up on opposite sofas and settled in for a gab.

I missed the company of women on the road.

"Okay, tell all," she said, grinning wickedly. "How was Mr. Same Time Next Year?"

"Same as last year."

I'd been having an odd affair with a Detroit columnist for five years. Sally couldn't understand why we confined our activities to my semi-annual trips with the team, but it suited us just fine.

"And I saw Tim in New York for lunch. But other than a couple of pub crawls in Chicago with the other writers it was pretty uneventful. A lot of hanging around the hotel bar listening to coaches tell the same old stories."

"How did the players treat you?"

"Same as usual. Stinger was more obnoxious than usual and David Sloane made a big scene in the clubhouse in New York again."

"You'd think he would have figured out by now that you're not in there to ogle."

"If I was, I wouldn't be ogling him, that's for sure."

Sloane, the centre fielder, is a Mormon who thinks that a woman in the clubhouse is an abomination against God and that I am Satan incarnate. It gets a bit boring. For years I've been trying to sneak the same typo into print: "David Sloane is a devout Moron." No luck so far.

"He's been fine for months. I guess it's the much vaunted pennant race pressure."

"Is that for real?"

"I don't know. Some of the players have been acting strangely lately. There are more short tempers in the clubhouse. There was almost a fight on the plane coming home between Steve Thorson and Joe Kelsey because he made an error. It's not much fun these days."

"These guys are bigger prima donnas than artists."

"Right about now I'd trade jobs with you in a second."

"No thanks. Except for all those naked men you get to ogle."

I threw my pillow at her.

Chapter 6.

I was leaning against the batting cage at noon the next day, talking with a Boston writer, when Tiny Washington ambled by.

"There's a gentleman admirer here for you," he said.

I turned to look where he was pointing, and saw T.C. in the stands next to the dugout waving at me, Titan cap on his head, a baseball glove on his left hand, and a pen clutched in his right. I waved and went to join him.

"Hi, Kate," he said. "My Mum said I could come down and say hi as long as I didn't bother you."

"You never bother me, kid." I refrained from kissing him. He had recently decided that kissing wasn't cool. "Long time no see. I missed you."

Tiny joined us and stuck out his huge hand to the boy.

"How's my little man," he said.

"Fine, Mr. Washington."

"Mr. Washington! You hear that, Kate? Here's someone who knows how to respect his elders. You can call me Tiny, son."

T.C. blushed.

"Are you going to win today?"

"Don't you worry. Tell you what I'm going to do. If I hit a home run, you get the bat."

"Gee, thanks, Mr. Washington. Tiny."

"What lies are you telling now?" Sultan Sanchez joined the group. "Don't listen to anything that man says. I'm the home-run hitter today. Sid Fiore's too tough for Tiny."

"Hi, Mr. Sanchez. Will you sign my glove?"

"Let me see that. This little thing? You're growing up too big for a kid's glove. Wait right here."

He ducked into the dugout and came back with his own glove.

"You've got more use for this than I do," he said.