Last Game of the Season

"These are the best seats ever," the chubby little Latin kid said to his father. He pounded his mitt and waited for a foul ball.

The barkeep had given me the tickets. I already had a pair in my pocket, but it was the last game of the season and I figured that I'd take a look at things from the third base side. There were a bunch of tickets that nobody wanted sitting on the back bar. Maybe the kid and his dad had scored.

The excited promise of the spring had faded long ago for most of us. The players had been coming up with family emergencies and various muscle pulls since first place had become the dream of others. Our favorite players had been shipped out, Lilly and Theriot to L.A,, Fontenot to the Giants, Lee to the Braves. The skipper, Lou Pinella, had gone home.

Carlos Zambrano had to be sent out to deal with his anger. Aramis Ramirez said that all he worried about was the third base. Soriano seemed happy and Byrd was showing the league how to hustle.

Usually these last games were like the days a bad marriage ended. Guys named Darwin and Wellington were trying to convince us that the sun was going to rise again.

Half the game was gone when the sun faded behind the grandstand, No foul balls had come close. It could have been the beginning if a lifetime of disappointment for the kid. The Cubs were hopelessly behind.

There was a stir in the seats below us and there he was. Tom Ricketts, the new owner of the team was standing there with a bag of balls. He was shaking hands and signing autographs. He probably hadn't signed too many autographs before buying the team.

I tapped the kid on the shoulder and told him to go down and get a ball. He went down and stood in a short line until Ricketts spotted him, signed a ball and put it in his glove. The kid was grinning from ear to ear.

Somewhere behind all this, what's-his-name at second base made a pretty good play. People cheered and Ricketts turned around for a minute.