I wanted to get back to my time, but Spirit led me north again, to downtown Central City, a place no longer familiar to me. The Futures Exchange was our destination, but instead of marveling over its magnificent exterior I tried to remember what building used to stand on its spot.

Had a landmark been razed to make room for it? I didn't know. I kept turning my head, trying to orient myself to the revised version of my city, and was slow to follow my spirit into the handsome and spacious lobby.

We arrived at the elevators at the same time as some out-of-town tourists. Their guide introduced himself as Glen, and asked them if they understood how options and futures work.

"Calls and puts," I said. "Dean Riggs once told me when you should buy a call and when you should buy a put. That's as much as I know."

The elevator door opened and people got off.

"It's complicated," I said. "Boring, too."

We all filed on to the elevator, the corporeal entities in one corner, the incorporeal in another. When the elevator let Glen and his party off, the spirit and I followed.

Halfway down the hallway, Glen stopped, turned, and almost put his arm through my chest.

"This means sell," he said. "Palm out." Then he turned his hand. "This means buy." He flipped his palm in and out, saying "buy sell buy sell" until he was sure we got the point, then took us into the viewing room, and we looked down on the trading floor.

Absolute bedlam below us, and Glen had to raise his voice to explain what we were seeing— traders, baseball traders trading in baseball futures.

"This makes no sense," I said. The spirit didn't hear me. People in baseball jerseys, facing each other across circular trading areas called "pits."

"And that's the pit for batting averages, that's the one for stolen bases, strikeouts over there, and see the one below us?"

I shouted at the spirit. "This is crazy!" The traders were yelling without letup.

"That's the big one folks, that's the slugger's pit! Home run futures!" said Glen. He directed our attention to a huge electronic wall display. Numbers scrolling non-stop.

"It makes absolutely no sense!"

"And current quotations over there, you see it now?"

The noise from the floor was a wall of sound, with everyone shouting and waving their hands around, communicating in a demented version of American Sign Language.

"September Home Runs!" said another tour guide.

"Stop!" I shouted. "Stop this!"

Why didn't the spirit bring his arm down and freeze everything?

"He's hurt!" said our guide. "He just went on the fifteen day list!"

"It's thirty and seven eighths!"

"You can't give it away!" shouted Glen. "Price has plummeted!"

I stepped into the corridor. The spirit poked his head out a minute later and beckoned me back to the viewing area, but I shook my head.

"It's driving me nuts," I said. "I just can't take it. I expected you to freeze everybody and shut them up, but you didn't."

He nodded agreeably, then stepped into the hallway.

"I realize this is another new source of revenue for us," I said. "I don't know how we're making money out of this, but frankly I don't care."

The spirit crossed his arms.

"Even if you froze the action, I don't think I'd be smart enough to figure it out."

He threw his arms into the air, his way of saying "If that's how you feel then, okay— we'll go."

When we were outside, I complained again. "One spirit wants me to be there for my son, the next spirit wants me to make baseball fun again, and you won't talk to me."

The citizens of a future day were all about us, walking past the fancy new building. "I should ask you if the things you've shown me are actually going to happen or if I'm supposed to prevent them from happening, but you'll never answer me."

The Spirit of Baseball Future brought his arm down, and we were in front of my ballpark again, all bedecked with proper World Series bunting. It was early morning, the temperature was cold and I wanted to go inside where it was warm.

"What is it you want?" I asked. "What do you want me to do?"

"Play ball!" he exclaimed, pointing for me to go inside.

My journey was over. Time remained frozen, and I started back toward my office.

I heard his voice call out again: "Play ball, John! Play ball!"