"Oh, boy! Thanks, Mr. Sanchez!"

"You're welcome. Where are you sitting? I want to be able to see you after I get my home run."

T.C. pointed out where Sally was sitting, halfway up the section behind the Titan dugout. She waved. Sultan doffed his cap and bowed deeply, never missing a chance to flirt.

"Go show her your glove, sweetie," I said. "We've all got work to do."

His feet hardly touched the steps.

"That was nice, Sultan. You've made his day."

"Any time you want to pay back the favour, you know where to find me," he said, winking.

I found Tony Costello slumped in a corner of the dugout.

"I feel lousy, Kate. I don't know if I'll be able to pitch. I think I ate some bad food."

"You always feel lousy before you start. You'd feel sick if your mom packed your lunch wearing sterilized gloves. You'll be fine after the first pitch."

How many times had I told him that? Sometimes I feel like a den mother.

"This is a big game. We've gotta win today."

"You don't gotta anything, Tony. What's going to happen if you lose? Is someone going to drop dead? Will the sun refuse to rise tomorrow morning? Hey, it's only a game."

Costello looked at the field, where a Red Sox hitter was knocking batting practice balls out of the park, and groaned.

He must have been feeling better by game time. He struck out the side in the top of the first. Then the fun began. Carter led off for the Titans with a single. Once at first, he inched towards second, bent at the knees and waist, grinning at Sid Fiore, the Red Sox pitcher.

Fiore was one of the best lefthanders in the league. Slim and handsome, he surprised with the power of his pitches, fastballs and sliders that were baffling when he was on his game. He was enough of a veteran not to let himself get rattled by Carter's antics, but threw to first a couple of times before setting his attention on Billy Wise, waiting at the plate.

On the first pitch, a pitchout, Carter was off. The throw to second was in time, but on the wrong side of the bag. The second-base umpire, Max Leonard, signalled safe.

Carter signalled for time out and got to his feet, calmly brushing the dirt off the front of his uniform, then strolled back towards first to retrieve his batting helmet.

Marty Hogan, the Red Sox manager, came out of the visitors' dugout, hands in his jacket pockets. Carter stood on second, his face impassive, his eyes flashing with excitement.

Fiore gestured to his catcher and began a soft game of catch, keeping his arm loose. Wise leaned on his bat and chatted with the home-plate umpire. The centre fielder hunkered down on his haunches.

In the meantime, Leonard was making himself dizzy. After listening to Hogan's argument for what he considered long enough, he turned his back on the enraged manager, but Hogan ran around to face him. Leonard kept turning, avoiding the argument. He didn't want to toss the manager in such a crucial game, despite advice from the Titans fans. Finally, he marched into centre field while his colleague from first cut Hogan off like a sheep-herding dog and sent him back to the dugout. The fans gave Hogan a derisive ovation.

The delay bothered Fiore. He walked Wise on three more pitches, picked up the resin bag, and threw it to the ground. He walked behind the mound and turned his back to the plate. He tucked his glove underneath his left arm and massaged the ball between his hands, gazing at the centre-field scoreboard. He took a deep breath, turned, and strode to the mound to face Joe Kelsey, always a home-run threat. Fiore pitched him carefully, working the count to two balls and two strikes. Kelsey fouled off pitch after pitch, waiting for the one he liked, then tapped a ground ball past the third baseman for a single. Carter held up at third, the bases were loaded, and the fans were on their feet.

Sultan Sanchez was up next. He stood at the plate and glared at Fiore, who nicked the outside corner for strike one, then wasted one high and inside. The crowd was chanting: "SUL-TAN, SUL-TAN." The Red Sox fielders were shifted towards left. He was a dead pull hitter-never hit a ball to the right side of field-and most teams played him that way. The Red Sox shift was so extreme their second baseman and shortstop were both stationed between second and third.

He fouled the third pitch off, then stepped out of the batter's box for a moment and glanced into the stands, towards where T.C. and Sally were sitting. Once back in the box, he dug in his cleats and waved his bat menacingly over his head, waiting for the pitch.

It came, he swung mightily and missed, going down on one knee with the effort. The crowd groaned as Sanchez trudged back to the dugout, twirling his bat in frustration, then threw his helmet against the bat rack.

Pumped up, Fiore watched Washington step to the plate. A left-handed hitter, he was less of a problem. He had hit only four of his season's twenty-seven home runs off lefthanders, and had never hit well against Fiore.

Maybe Fiore relaxed just a bit too much. Washington pounded his first pitch over the right-field fence. Showing no emotion, he trotted slowly around the basepaths to home plate, where Carter, Wise, and Kelsey waited to welcome him. As it turned out, the game was won.

Between innings, I went to the dining room for a cup of tea. I stopped at the press box door on the way back.

My home away from home it might be, but it's an awful place to spend time. The architects, worried about our well-being early and late in the season, sealed us in behind plate glass. It's a hothouse from June until August, but even when it's chilly outside, the glass is only a mixed blessing.

It keeps out the cold, certainly. But it also keeps out the sounds of the game and keeps in the rather unique pollution of jock journalists. I can't in all conscience complain about the cigarette smoke, as some of it is my own, but the cheap cigars are foul. Their fumes are enriched by a subtle hint of undeodorized armpit and uncontrolled flatulence.

I found Christopher Morris in the back row and sat next to him for a few innings. We agreed to meet for dinner at eight.

Costello pitched shutout ball until the ninth. He loaded the bases then, on a pair of singles and a walk, and Griffin came in to get the final out for the twenty-first save of his rookie season.

But the crowd saved its biggest ovation for the scoreboard flashing the message that the Indians had beaten the Yankees, 82, in Cleveland.

Afterwards, the Titan clubhouse was jumping. I went to Costello's locker, where he sat, a towel wrapped around his corpulent midriff. He had a cigarette in one hand and a beer in the other and greeted me jubilantly, hooking a stool from the next locker with his right foot.

"Sit down. I should have listened to you."

"No fair, Bony. Now I can't say 'I told you so.'"

"The worse I am before the game, the better I feel when I start to pitch." He took a long swallow of beer. "And the guys made it easy for me today. I could kiss Tiny Washington right now!"

He directed the last statement loudly towards the first baseman's locker. Tiny looked up and waved.

"Except I don't want to catch whatever he's got," continued Costello. "It sure turns you ugly."

Washington took a mock run towards Costello's locker, growling. Suddenly, skinny Alex Jones leaped between them, naked as a newborn.

"No, Tiny," he shouted, raising his little fists. "If you hit him you will have to answer to me!"

Washington stopped, then raised his arms protectively in front of his face and cowered back to his locker.

"No, no! Anything but that!"

I followed him.

"Yankees lost?"

"They sure did."

"Never thought I'd be rooting for the Indians. I want to get this thing over with. I don't want it to come down to the last series."

"Tiny, where's your sense of drama?"

"I'm too old for drama. You know that."

"You can clinch it tomorrow with a bit of luck. You win, the Indians win, and it's done."

"That would be sweet."

"How many grand slams have you hit?"

"Not enough. I don't like them, though," he deadpanned.

"Why not?"

"Too many handshakes. By the time I've figured out the high five, low five, soul shake, Latin shake, and plain old white bread handshake, I'm worn out."

Sultan Sanchez interrupted from the next locker.

"I softened him up for you, Tiny. I should get half that dinger."

"Now I know where you got them brown eyes, Sultan. You're full of shit."

I turned to leave them to it, but Tiny stopped me.

"Take this to the boy," he said, handing me his bat.

Chapter 7.

I had time to go home and relax for an hour before going out to dinner. I took the streetcar to my favourite restaurant, the Fillet of Soul, a dark, cosy, barn-like place specializing in ribs and fried chicken, southern-style cooking transplanted north. I liked it for more than the food. I could drop in any time and find friends.

I was talking to Sarah Jefferson when Christopher arrived. She and her husband Tom had owned the restaurant for twenty years. He came to Toronto from Alabama to play football, met Sarah his first season, and decided to spend his life with her. That he was black and she white and the time the early sixties had made her home town a more comfortable place than his. When he began to miss his grandmother's cooking, he opened the restaurant and shared the cuisine with the rest of the city. Ontario was an unlikely place for soul food, but the restaurant had thrived.

"Were you there this afternoon? What a game! I cheered so hard I can hardly talk. Tiny's here, with Darlene." Sarah was dithering. "I put them in the back room. And some of the Red Sox are here, too."

"Slip some ptomaine into their okra, and do us all a favour," I said, then introduced Christopher.

Sarah greeted him warmly, showed us to a table in the corner, took our drink orders, and left us alone.

"She's a bit nuts," I explained. "We're not used to winning in Toronto. We've got a bad hockey team and a football team just good enough to break our hearts year after year."

"I don't know what anyone's worried about. You've got four good starters and great hitting. The Yankees are done. Jimmy Fox has burned out the bullpen in the last two weeks."

"Don't confuse me with logic. This is the biggest battle since the War of 1812. That's the last time we beat you guys."

"Well, we could use a bit of that," Morris chuckled. "God knows the Yankees could. I'm rooting for the Titans."

The waiter came with the menus. I reached absently for one, then did a double take. Tiny Washington, with a napkin draped over his arm, bowed.

"The Martini is for you, I believe, Miss Henry. And the Scotch is for Mr. Morris. We are honoured that you have chosen to grace our city with your presence."

Morris got up to greet him.

"How are you, Tiny? I haven't seen you in years."

"No complaints. The old body's slowing down a bit, but I don't need speed for my homerun trot."

"You're being too modest, Tiny," I said. "Tell him about the bunt you beat out last week in Chicago."

"Yes, that's true," he laughed. "Only in the interests of honesty I have to point out that the third baseman was playing me halfway to second. The old Washington Shift. But don't let me disturb you folks any more. I've got to get my rest."

"There's one wonderful guy," I said after he left. "I don't know how I would get along without him."

"The Titans are lucky to have him in the clubhouse," Morris agreed. "I remember him when he first came up with the Mets. He had that avuncular quality at nineteen."

Dinner was relaxed and pleasant. Morris was almost twenty years my senior, but he was neither world-weary nor stuffy. He was a small island of humanity in the sea of cynicism that is the press box.

Over sloppy ribs and collard greens, I filled him in on the colour he was looking for, about the team and the town.

"What's the story with Steve Thorson?" he asked, when the pecan pie arrived.

"Who knows? Maybe he's washed up."

"He's been a great pitcher for so long it's hard to believe he's mortal."

"I figure it looks good on him."

"You don't like him?"

"Do you?"

"He's always pretty quotable, and not stupid about the game. I've had some good conversations with him."

"Well, you don't see him every day. The endless analysis gets tedious. Besides, it all always comes down to how everybody else is to blame."

"I thought he was popular."

"The fans love him. He's always ready to front a charity or sign autographs, but it's all phony. I've never seen a spontaneous gesture out of the man. He goes to visit Sick Kids' Hospital, you can be sure there's a television camera there."

"Do you know the problems he's having with his agent?"

"Sam Craven? Just that he's dumped him. What else?"

"That's enough. You don't dump Sam Craven, especially when you're negotiating a new contract. Sam wants his piece.

"His ego is also at stake. He prides himself on representing the best athletes in all sports. The people I talk to say that if Thorson gets away, the others are going to be watching very carefully. And if Thorson can get the contract he wants without Craven, a lot of them will walk."

"What can Craven do?" I asked.