Benevides is the man who replaced Shane London in our pitching rotation, and the Dominican youngster took the heart right out of Atlanta in that final contest. He was on automatic! On cruise control! He breezed through their lineup, mowed them down frame after frame!

Oh, Goldie! You had it right!

Another 6-1 victory for us.

The only tension came in the bottom of the ninth, when the Atlanta faithful started to leave the park. They didn't even wait for the final out. It was a regular mass exodus, and I knew Mike would have difficulty guiding his stranded family down to our box. All over the park, disheartened fans were being herded toward the nearest exit.

I slipped a couple of twenties to Reggie and ordered him to the rescue, but I should have done it sooner.

The final out: Bernie ran out toward the mound to Benevides, Keeshon (in for late-inning defensive purposes) dashed over to Jamal, the outfielders raced in with arms raised in triumph. Our bench sprinted onto the field. Everyone met in the middle of the infield, all of them jumping up and down and hugging and shouting and grabbing one another exactly the way winners always do on TV.

In my box we comported ourselves with more dignity. I was disappointed that Mike's family hadn't reached us in time.

Over in the GM's box, the baseball men were all jumping up and down and hugging each other. They waited for us to join them, but Pete signaled them to go down onto the field without us. He and Goldie knew I wouldn't budge. Not without Mike. They knew how much of our success was due to Mike.

By the time Reggie led the O'Ryan party down to us, the Braves fans around us were mostly gone. Mike was carrying Holly so we didn't hug each other, but made do with hand-slaps and high-fives, us and the kids. Then we followed Reggie down toward the playing field.

I was first onto the field. Mike handed Holly over the railing to me as Goldie stepped through the door onto the field. "Think cliches now, John," he said as we all walked to the dugout.

And cliches were what I was thinking as I entered the clubhouse. Sure enough, as soon as Pigskin Boy spotted me he stopped talking to the GM and called out my name. It was noisy, far too raucous to hear what P.B. was saying to me.

Deborah was right behind me. She tried to reach past the GM for her daughter, but I wasn't about to let go of Holly. As soon as the microphone was in my face, I blurted out the biggest cliche I could think of: "I'M GOING TO DISNEY WORLD!" I shouted. "I'M TAKING MY GRANDCHILDREN TO DISNEY WORLD!"

Then I acted just as goofy as my players. "We're the champs! The Champs are champs! World champs!" Pigskin Boy must have said something, but I didn't take it in. "And I've got the greatest GM in the world!" I said. He was still standing between me and Deborah. "Talk to him! That's who built this team!" and with that, I stepped aside to let the GM take my place alongside Pigskin Boy.

I turned to Deborah. "Where's Amber?" I asked. "Where's Jordan?"

"I lost them!" shouted Deborah.

Corks were popping and the players were whooping it up, spraying each other with champagne, spraying the media people as well. There was a manic look in everyone's eyes, and I held Holly all the tighter. A bunch of crazy people. Happy people, but crazy all the same.

Not that it bothered Holly any. "Over there!" she shouted.

"Where?" I said. "What?"

"There's Amber!" she said. "There!"

Amber had found Renee and clearly intended to remain at her side. Someone with a microphone was approaching them.

It's out in the open now, Amber. That's what I wanted to tell my granddaughter. It's okay to call me Grandpa.

Renee spoke into the microphone. "Talk to the ballplayers," she said. "This is their moment."

Then Dennis Hominy asked her how she felt. "I'm talking to Amber," said Renee. "We've got some girl talk to catch up on."

Dennis turned, saw me, and said "John! John Courtland! How do you feel about—"

Goldie intercepted him, turned him around and gave him a gentle push toward Bernie Weible and Tony Bonifante.

He told me they needed me for the trophy ceremony, and steered me toward a make-shift podium, where the Commissioner of Baseball was already standing, studying his notes. Pigskin Boy was coming our way.

Then Goldie added something about the telephone hookup with the White House. That would come hard on the heels of the presentation.

He took Holly from my arms then, and all of a sudden Pigskin Boy was introducing the Commissioner, who then began reciting his notes from memory. A little summary of the season, a mini-recap in which he recounted how the Champs had triumphed over adversity.

As he talked I looked around for Jordan and for Mike.

He praised the wonderful play of Nifty and Jamal and Nicky Skipper, but also managed to mention the psychics, the fans yelling trust me, and the hot dog prices. And then he introduced me as the man responsible for the Champs world championship season, the man who made the most famous trade in baseball history.

I meant to thank him for his nice words, but never made it that far. "You're right," I said. "I did trade a star pitcher for a peanut vendor."

Then I spotted Jordan, riding the shoulders of Keeshon Gillings.

"I guess I'll never live it down."

The kid was waving a full champagne bottle around and shouting "Go Champs!" and I smiled in his direction.

The commissioner held the trophy, started to hand it to me. I felt he was pushing me, and I said "I can't accept this trophy."

It stopped him cold.

What I meant was "I can't accept this trophy until I thank you and MLB and everyone else."

He lacked basic award-ceremony protocol skills. "You can't?" he said, which seemed further proof of his deficiency.

And then I said it. "The only person who can accept this trophy is the president of the ball club."

There was a ringing in my ears.

I knew where Deborah was, where Amber and Jordan and Holly were, but not Mike. Peterson was across the room, and I called out to him.

"Pete!" I said. "Bring him up here."

An awkward moment. What is that goofy Courtland up to this time? That's what Pigskin Boy and Commissioner were thinking. I leaned across the jumbo trophy. "I'm no longer president," I said. "I stepped down."

Pete had Mike in tow, was bringing him up front.

Before Pigskin Boy could ask me to explain, I said "My foundation—have to work on the foundation."

Mike looked totally dazed, and I seized his arm, pushed him toward the commissioner.

"Meet our new president," I said. "He's the only who can accept this trophy. My son. Mike O'Ryan."