My life is the Central City Champs-- Shane London, Nifty Downstreet, Bartolomeo "Bee" Jacquez, Jamal Toosley, Ray Burns Junior and Tony Bonifante. I don't let anything get in the way of this life, not even spirits. Johnson and Fitzgerald and Guerrero, Dunham and Funston and Lucero; Nicky Skipper and Ernie De la Garza and Manager Peeler Fitch.

And new faces like free agent Anderson McFrammis in right field. And the kid pitchers-- would Benevides or Esquibel make it this year? And now Bernie Trust-Me Weible, a guy I didn't want, my GM didn't want, and Peeler Fitch didn't want.

Fallout from the visit of my spirit, and totally unexpected. I could never have predicted that we would wind up with a new catcher.

Catching was one position where we were set. The plan was to bring young Clifford Block along while getting one more solid year out of veteran Dane Mackowitz. Dane handles pitchers well, and always calls a good game. And he can still hit the ball.

I like Dane Mackowitz. After eleven years with us, he still has a super work ethic. He never lets anything interfere with his personal conditioning program, and he sets a good tone in the clubhouse. He's from the old school. Yells at rookies to run out popups and keeps the young guys focused. He's a leader, he's a pro, he's respected.

And he's expendable.

Which took me awhile to see.

Send her flowers. That was the first thing on my mind. Send her the biggest prettiest most expensive bouquet of flowers they have in the store. I had screwed up my field trip to the past by my own selfishness, and I owed Deirdre an apology. Owed her a huge apology.

I had lost the chance to benefit from her wisdom and advice by my headstrong impulse to see my mother. I had compounded my folly by my negative reaction to my nemesis Al O'Ryan.

It was my second day in Florida, and I sat in the colorful atrium of the RC, perusing the local newspaper and trying to enjoy orange juice for one, then working my way through a carafe of coffee. I was alone and fully visible to anyone who wandered by, and many did, including my GM, who told me I looked like I'd just lost my best friend.

"I don't have a best friend," I said. "You know that."

He wasn't sure whether to laugh or not. We're not close to each other, and he never knows if I'm joking or serious. He said he was on his way over to the Complex, the ground zero of spring training activity.

I nodded approval at this action, said I'd be heading out there myself later on. I didn't invite him to sit down.

He asked if I was okay, said I really looked down in the dumps. I pointed to the newspaper, opened to the ad for a local florist. "I have to send some flowers to someone."

"I hope everything's all right," he said. I nodded without volunteering any further information, and he said he'd better get moving.

"Think about Bernie Weible," I said.

"The catcher?"

"I promised Steve Carnivore we'd give him serious consideration."

"He can't throw to second!"

"Our pitchers can learn how to hold the runners." I could see the wheels spinning inside his head: Is he serious?

"They'll run on him," he said. "Steal him blind."

"A few pitchouts should discourage that." He looked at me again, the image of Bernie Trust Me Weible in a Champs uniform slowly taking form inside his baseball man's skull.

"We can't give up on Clifford Block yet. He's just a year away from taking over."

"Maybe he's ready to take over right now," I said.

"Oh no, Dane is still our catcher." He spoke emphatically, with an annoying tone of finality.

"He is?" I asked, and with that question, I ruined my GM's day.

He didn't reply, but I could see him struggle to restrain himself.

"Don't worry about it," I said. "It's not likely to come to anything. But I told Carnivore we'd look at the guy."

The GM hustled away from me mighty fast, thinking the so-predictable thoughts of a baseball man: that I was an idiot, that I wasn't a baseball man, that I should let the baseball men make the baseball decisions.

They're all like that. All baseball men.

It was the crack about losing my best friend that motivated me. It was none of his business how I looked. Don't get familiar. He needed a reminder. You're an employee.

Plus I was mad at myself. Seeing Susan in California. That's why I felt down. Good God, I was still in love with her! And it showed!

Oh Deirdre, why couldn't you let my past stay buried!

"He was always there." That's what had set me off. It was an accusation. O'Ryan was there and I wasn't.

It wasn't possible for me to be "there." Mike's mother had divorced me. Didn't my spirit understand that? The only way I could have been there for him would have been to kidnap him.

How do you send flowers to the nether world?

Did she mean I'm not there for him now? After giving him a job with the Champs and moving him around the organization so he can learn the business inside out?

Give the florist all those phone numbers, and let him handle it.

Save the Whales.

That's what Deirdre had meant. I wasn't there for him. I had rejected Save the Whales Day, dismissed it out of hand.

The florist could send her a fax and ask her to fax back a delivery address. No problem.

Whales have nothing to do with baseball. That's what I'd told Mike. Dick Reynolds had agreed with me. Whales don't have anything to do with baseball, he said.

I killed the idea for his own good. To save him the humiliation of seeing his first big promotional idea fall flat on his face. The idea wasn't traditional. My gut told me it would never work.

Mike was hurt by it, and I knew it. But it just wasn't the kind of idea the club should be associated with.

A little voice told me: If the idea is such a flop why not let him find out for himself?

The voice grew more insistent, and I called Dick Reynolds. Right there at my atrium table. No small talk about the weather in Florida or the snow back home: "I've been rethinking Save the Whales," I said.

"Don't tell me," he said. "You went to Sea World."

"I want you to resurrect the idea."

"They're a big attraction," he said. "Whales."

"Get Mike in on it," I said. "It was his idea."

"I think they're making another one of those whale movies."

Mike's kids loved the movie-- that's what had given him the idea.

"Kids are just naturally crazy about whales."

"All the cheap merchandise we give away each year-- what does any of it have to do with baseball?" I asked.

Dick Reynolds said that promotions need lead time, lots of it.

"Look at Seat Cushion Night," I said. "We slap our logo on one side, the Gatorade logo on the other side--"

"First Reliable," said Dick.

"First Reliable?"

"First Reliable Bank sponsored Seat Cushion Night, not Gatorade."

"My point is that seat cushions don't have anything more to do with baseball than--"

"Gatorade did Sports Bag Night," he said.

"Seat cushions, sports bags-- what does it have to do with baseball?"

"You're right," said Dick. "We might as well save the whales."