“Courtney, you miracle worker, how’d you get him to agree to an interview?” I asked.

“I wish I could take some of the credit,” she said. “Instead I just answered the phone. I got a call from Robinson’s agent yesterday.”

“The guy still has an agent? That’s amazing in itself.”

“I know, go figure. Maybe they’re hoping he’ll be rein-stated. Maybe that’s it, what he wants to talk to you about.”

“I wouldn’t hold my breath,” I said. “He’s well into his thirties by now. Hasn’t pitched in years.”

“Still, that would explain his wanting to do the interview, right? He comes clean, sets the story straight… It would be his first step toward a comeback,” she said. “Maybe not on the mound, but at least in the public eye, his legacy.”

“Yeah, so far it’s worked wonders for Pete Rose,” I joked. “Still, if that’s the case, wouldn’t he do a television interview?”

The words were barely out of my mouth when I had the answer. Dwayne Robinson, the “Great Black Hope from Harlem ” and onetime ace southpaw of the Yankees pitching staff, suffered from, among many things, acute social anxiety disorder. Although he could take the mound and pitch brilliantly before fifty-five thousand screaming fans, he could barely carry on a conversation one-on-one. Especially in front of a camera.

“I forgot one thing,” I said. “The guy was like a walking advertisement for Paxil.”

“Bingo,” said Courtney. “In fact, Robinson’s agent told me that he’s afraid his client might change his mind. That’s why he’s already set up a lunch for you two, Nick. You and Dwayne, Dwayne and you. Cozy, huh?”

“When?” I asked, beginning to get more than a little excited about this.

“Tomorrow,” she said. “Lombardo’s, twelve thirty.”

“Courtney, I’m in Dubai.”

“Hopefully not for long, Nick. You have an important lunch tomorrow. In New York.”

As if on cue the gate attendant approached me. He looked just like Niles Crane from the show Frasier. Weird. “Excuse me, sir, will you be joining us to Paris?” he asked with a slight smirk. “The gate is closing right now.”