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(I’m thinking of the BC pitcher who struck out big David Ortiz in the third, and wondering if he’ll still be telling people about it when he’s forty-five and paunchy). “Oh, like you wouldn’t believe,” Joe says, and then goes on to tell us the Red Sox player the college kids liked the most was the much maligned Carl Everett, who was dubbed Jurassic Carl by Boston
Globe
columnist Dan Shaughnessy (for his temper as much as his fundamentalist Christian beliefs), and who has since been traded to the Montreal Expos. “He was great to the [college players],” Joe says. “He’d spend lots of time talking to them and give them all kinds of equipment.” He pauses, then adds, “I bet he prospers in Montreal, because there’s no media coverage. People won’t be watching him so closely.”
    By now it’s the bottom of the sixth, and Joe excuses himself. He and his broadcast partner, Jerry Trupiano (“Troop”), are doing the evening game (another slo-mo scrimmage, this time against Northeastern, with a fellow named Schilling starting for the Sox), and he has to prepare. But, like everything else that happens this day, the preparations will be leisurely, more pleasure than business. Joe knows a lot of people back home in New England will be listening, but not exactly paying attention—it’s the Soxversus Northeastern, after all…but it’s also baseball, Schilling on the mound, Garciaparra at short, and Varitek behind the plate (at least for a while, then maybe Kelly Shoppach, another guy with a high number). It’s the fact of it that matters, like that first robin you see on your still-snowy front lawn.
    It’s too early to play really hard, and too early to wax really lyrical, either (God knows there’s too much labored lyricism in baseball writing these days; it’s even crept into the newspapers, which used to be bastions of statistics and hard-nosed reality—what sports reporters used to call “the agate”). But it can’t hurt to say that being here—especially after a serious bout of pneumonia—feels pretty goddamn wonderful. It’s like putting your hand out and touching a live thing—another season when great things may happen. Miracles, even. And if that isn’t touching grace, it’s pretty close.
    Oh, shit, that’s too close to lyrical for comfort, but it’s been a good day. There was baseball. So let it stand. March 6th
    After a sloppy loss at the Twins’ place, we run into Dauber by the players’ lot. Everyone pushes toward him; it’s not a surge, more of a controlled approach, lots of jockeying. There’s a space of two feet around him that we seem to agree is forbidden. You can reach a ball or a card into it, but anything more would be a violation. No one tries to shake his hand or put an arm around him for a picture, as if that would be too personal.
    I’m lucky enough to be in the front, in the middle.
    “Welcome back,” I tell him.
    “Thank you.” He’s surprisingly soft-spoken, you might even say shy.
    “Have you noticed everyone’s been cheering the loudest for you, even here on the road.”
    “It means a lot.”
    I back off after he signs my ball, and see a Navigator with Illinois plates rolling up. I know Dauber’s the pride of Belleville, Illinois (along with Wilco’s Jeff Tweedy), so I call, “Your ride’s here.”
    “Thanks,” he says, and he’s off.
    When we get back to the hotel, I’m unwinding on the balcony when I see a woman on the beach in an old Lou Merloni shirt. “Loooooooo ooooooooouuuuuu!” I hoot, and she turns around but doesn’t see me.
    For years Lou Merloni—the Pride of Framingham, Massachusetts—was our regular schlub and native son. He could play anywhere in the infield or outfield, and was a reliable pinch hitter. Someone would get hurt, and he’d end up starting, hit .330, and then sit when the guy came back. He was Nomar’s best friend, yet Sox management seemed to delight in shipping him down to Pawtucket and calling him back up, a