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another Bernstein.”
    Of course, that was a ripe load of bull. I was only in it for the bucket of popcorn, a Mountain Dew, and maybe some Raisinets if my dad was in a chipper mood.
    But as I sat there in the theater munching and slurping away, something amazing happened. Magical, almost. Up on the screen were two young guys who were on the biggest treasure hunt of their lives, only they were searching for something more valuable than gold or diamonds, or even the Ark of the Covenant. I was only eleven but I got it — and till this day I’ve never wanted to let go.
    They were searching for the truth .
    So even after two flights, eight time zones, and twenty exceedingly long hours, I couldn’t wait to travel a few miles more. I quickly grabbed a hot, then cold, shower and changed into some clean clothes.
    Then it was out the door and back into a cab heading down to 67th Street and Third Avenue.
    At twelve thirty on the dot, I walked into Lombardo’s Steakhouse ready to meet one of the best pitchers and most confounding puzzles ever to play the game of baseball.
    And if I handled everything just right, I’d have the story that a hundred other writers around New York would kill for. Dwayne Robinson, what really happened that night you were supposed to pitch the seventh game of the World Series? Why didn’t you show up at the ballpark?
    How could you break so many hearts, including my own?

Chapter 7
    “JUST ONE SECOND, SIR,” I was told after giving the hostess at Lombardo’s my name. “I’ll be right back to help you. One second.”
    As she disappeared into the dining room, I leaned forward over her podium to catch a glimpse of the reservation book. When you eat out as much as I do, you get pretty good at reading your name upside down.
    Sure enough, there was “Robinson/Daniels” on a line for twelve thirty. After it was a star.
    The star treatment, perhaps? Not for me, of course. Maybe for Citizen magazine?
    Seconds later, the hostess returned. “We have a nice quiet table reserved for you, Mr. Daniels. Follow me.”
    If you insist.
    She happened to be a very pretty blonde, and as my father’sfather, Charles Daniels, used to say right up until his dying day, “If there’s one thing I have a weakness for, it’s pretty blondes. That’s followed very closely by pretty brunettes and pretty redheads.”
    We arrived at a table along the back wall. “What’s your name?” I asked, sitting down.
    “Tiffany,” she answered.
    “Like the pretty blue box?”
    She smiled, her eyes shining like gems. “Exactly.”
    That was for you, Grandpa Charles. Hope you were watching and getting a laugh .
    Tiffany turned, leaving me on my own — and that’s how I remained for the next ten minutes. Then twenty. Then half an hour. What was this all about?
    Thankfully, of all the restaurants in which to be stuck waiting for someone, Lombardo’s Steakhouse ranked near the top, thanks to its truly sublime people watching. It was easy to pass the time counting the Botoxed foreheads or, for the truly cynical, playing Hollywood Hamlet with the tabloid celebrities sprinkled in the mix.
    Rehab or not rehab? That is the question .
    I guess that’s why I had been a little surprised that Dwayne Robinson would agree to meet me here, let alone be the one to actually choose the place.
    Sure, he was as famous as they come in the world of sports. Or maybe infamous was a better word these days. But even way back when he was the toast of New York — make that America — he never would’ve eaten at Lombardo’s. That’s how bad his anxiety disorder was.
    So maybe he’s cured now. Maybe that’s one of the hooks of this interview, that he’s “going public” in more ways than one .
    Or maybe not.
    As I glanced at my watch again, I wondered if perhaps nothing had changed about him and my flying halfway around the planet with barely a minute to spare was all for naught. Dwayne Robinson was now an hour late.
    What’s the deal? Where the