Then there was me.

A shock of sandy-brown hair on top of my six-foot-one frame dressed in a faded pair of jeans and an even more faded polo shirt. I couldn’t stand out more if I were Gene Simmons wearing full Kiss makeup and reading the Koran out loud.

Courtney drew a deep breath. “You remember Dwayne Robinson?” she asked. Of course I did and she knew it.

“You mean, the same Dwayne Robinson who cost the Yankees – my Yankees – the World Series? That crazy bastard? That total enigma?”

“Ten years ago and you still hold a nasty grudge? You are nuts about baseball, aren’t you?”

“Absolutely. It could be a hundred years and I’d still never forget… or forgive.” I bristled.

What can I say? I’ve been a die-hard fan of the Bronx Bombers ever since my father drove us down from Newburgh and took me to my first game when I was five. We sat in the upper deck, about three miles from the field, but I didn’t care. Ever since then I’ve just about bled Yankee pinstripes. And yes, I know it’s nuts.

“On second thought, maybe this is a bad idea,” said Courtney. “Go to Paris, Nick.”

“What do you mean by that? What are you getting at? Why are you pushing me off to Paris now?”

She milked it for a few seconds. “He wants to do an interview with you.”

I had this bizarre feeling that that’s what she was going to say, but I was still surprised to hear it. Very surprised. Dwayne Robinson had been the J. D. Salinger of the baseball world ever since he got banned from the game in spectacular fashion. His last statement to the working press was “I’ll never talk to any of you again.” For the past decade, he’d been true to his word.

Lucky for me, things change. This was huge. This would be the story of my career so far. It was also a dream come true.