The big lefty who was blasting them in batting practice turns out to be veteran Tony Clark, who golfs a three-run shot.

“Let’s go Mets!” someone yells.

“Let’s go Tigers!”

“Let’s go Sox!”

The Yankees are still worried, it seems, because they bring in Felix Heredia to pitch the seventh and eighth. McCarty, who’s played the whole game, hits into a 4-6-3 double play in the eighth, making him 0 for 4. In the top of the ninth he blocks a hot smash at first, then kicks the ball away.

“How’s the weather in Pawtucket?” someone yells.

Hyzdu strikes out to end it. The final’s 11–7. Unsatisfying, but we did win the A game, knocking Contreras around, and Arroyo looked good.

Outside, we walk by the players’ lot, ogling a classic tomato-red GTO convertible. Someone says it’s Nomar’s, except he’s already left with Mia Hamm in her car.

A Jeep Cherokee with BK in it flies by us.

“You’re making friends,” someone shouts after him.

Several people confirm a new trade rumor: BK and Trot for Randy Johnson.

Most of the big names are long gone, but first-base coach Lynn Jones rolls down his window and signs, as does Cesar Crespo, driving a pimped-out Integra with Konig rims. Terry Francona doesn’t stop—“Another bad decision!”

A young guy pulls up in a Taurus. No one can place him. He stops and rolls down his window, but no one approaches.

“I’m only a rookie,” he says. “You probably wouldn’t want my autograph.”

He’s right, but we can’t say that to his face.

“Sure we do.” A couple of parents push their kids forward.

It’s Josh Stevens, a pitcher for the PawSox.

There are only four people left when we take off. It’s almost five.

Driving back to the hotel, I say, “I wonder if the Twins are playing tonight.”