The Seventh Inning Stretch. We stood up like everybody else, and sang Take Me Out to the Ballgame, and then Dave asked me who owned the rights to the Seventh Inning Stretch in Central City.

"Boulevard Chevrolet," I said.

"What if they order everyone not to stand?"

He was being goofy again.

"What if they order them to sing something else?"

"Dave," I said. "Come on now."

"Baseball, hot dogs, apple pie and Chevrolet," he sang. "What's to prevent them from making the fans sing that?"

"Tradition," I said.

"But they're paying for it."

"They're paying us for one simple message," I said. "'This Seventh Inning Stretch is brought to you by Boulevard Chevrolet.'"

"How much do they pay for that?"

"I can't remember," I said. The people around us started sitting down. "But it's none of your business anyway." It bothered me that I didn't know.

"Knowing you, it probably went up from last year," he said. I usually know where every dime comes from.

"Everything went up from last year," I said. "We call that The Shane London Effect."

"But what if Boulevard Chevrolet asks you to change the song?"

"That's not going to happen."

"Don't bet on it, John." He stepped into the aisle. "Don't bet on it."

He took a step down. "What if Boulevard Chevrolet turns you down? What if everybody turns you down and you don't sell it?"

We started walking down toward the box seats.

"Are the fans required to stand for the Seventh Inning Stretch if nobody sponsors it?"

"Where are we going?" I asked.

"The bullpen." he said.

"Nothing doing," I said. To go into the bullpen we'd have to go down to the first row of seats, climb over the railing and jump down.

"You'd have to put a message on your fancy scoreboard: Don't stand up for the seventh inning stretch."

"Why the bullpen, Dave?"

"I want you to experience what it's like."

"I can see what it's like-- it's a bullpen. Number 44 is warming up."

"I want you to walk in from the bullpen."

"Walk to the pitcher's mound? In front of all these people?"

"I want you to see just how long it takes."

"No you don't," I said. I turned away, headed toward home.

By the time he caught up to me, I was even with the visitors' dugout. "What's your hurry?" he said. He was out of breath.

"You're just too weird," I said. "You want me down on the playing field in front of this huge crowd--"

"You'd be invisible," he said. "They wouldn't see you."

"I've been invisible," I said. I turned at the next set of stairs. "I know what it's like." Headed down.

"Okay," he said. "You win."

Different atmosphere beneath the stands at mid-game. A scattering of fans waiting for a hot dog or a beer and studying TV monitors, letting the voices of the broadcasters tell them what they're missing.

There's also guys coming and going from the washrooms on a regular basis, and Dave steered me into one. "Last chance to use major league facilities."

There were lines before each urinal, fellows with beer to unload, and I was spooked. I did not know if I was invisible or not. A totally creepy sensation. Believe me. You worry that the guy behind you can't see you, might step right through you-- might whiz right through you.

Yuck.

Suddenly a terrific roar from above, a happy roar, a home run roar, home town fans exploding in joy.

The guy in front of me turned around. "That Nearly!" he said. "Thad baby, I knew you'd do it!" He swung his arm around, and our hands slapped together. Solid contact.

"He is one fine ballplayer," I said. "A great third baseman."

"I wish I'd seen it," said the fan. "But if I'd stayed in the stands, he probably would have struck out."

I agreed, relieved at having my corporeality.

When I came out of the john, Dave said that it was okay if I didn't want to walk in from the bullpen. "But you still need to ride the golf cart."

He walked me on out of the park, led me directly across the street to a huge souvenir store.

"That's a must."

There were no customers inside, but nobody sprang forward to wait on us, to say May I help you? Good bye, corporeality. We were invisible.

I followed Dave past shelves and counters and display racks of caps and jerseys and jackets and baseball gear. He made a beeline to their showpiece exhibit, a golf cart. Topped by a jumbo-sized Red Sox cap.

He got into the cart. "Climb aboard, John," he said. "We have a journey to make."

"I can't go with you," I said. I had to be loyal to Deirdre.

A sign said that this historic cart used to bring relief pitchers to the mound at Fenway.

"I'm sure you can teach me a lot about Baseball Past, but--"

"Who said anything about the past?" he asked. "She already took you to the past." The cart lurched forward.

"Hop in," he said. "We're gonna do some Baseball Present!"

"We are?"

"She took you away from me, and that was Lesson Number One. That she could get away with it."

I got in next to him. "Now it's time she learns Lesson Number Two."

We crashed into a pyramid of merchandise, went right through it.

"Two can play that game," he said. "Yes sir. Two can play that game."