"Check your watch, John." The golf cart was on a collision course with the front door. "Time us."

Ka-boom! We went right through the door and onto the street outside. No traffic.

"We'll be there in no time at all," said Dave.

We were traveling through Boston at golf cart speed. "About as much time as it takes to bring a relief pitcher in from the bullpen."

The sky grew lighter and lighter, and it was easier for me to read the second hand on my watch. And all of a sudden we were driving across the green grass of a park, a community park with a bunch of baseball fields, four of them to be exact. And games in progress at every one of them.

Dave drove straight across the outfield grass. "Well, we ain't in Boston any more, John." We reached a long driveway and turned onto it, started passing parked cars to our right. "Ain't even in the Commonwealth of Mass."

"Where are we?" I asked.

"How long did it take us, John?"

"I don't recognize anything," I said.

At its far end, the driveway made a loop and headed back toward the park entrance. There was ample parking space between these "in" and "out" lanes, but Dave stopped in the middle of the road.

"Wait here a minute," he said. He hopped out of the cart, started walking toward a small two-story building at the end of the driveway. One side fronted a ballfield, and the back housed a concession stand, with a large open window and counter area. That's where Dave was headed.

I watched the big guy make his way up the drive, wondering what state we were in, what town.

Dempseys Grove, that's where we were, the home of Mike and Deborah O'Ryan, the home of Amber, Jordan and Holly. If I had gotten out of the cart and walked with Dave I would have seen a dedication plaque commemorating the Dempseys Grove Lions Club on the wall of the concession building.

Had I known we were in Dempseys Grove our field trip would have been much much different.

But that's hindsight. Dave was flying by the seat of his pants, and he had no idea where we were or why we were there.

I could see him talking to people, obviously visible to them, but was too far away to hear anything. That's why he had not driven all the way up to the building-- he didn't want me to know he didn't know where we were.

When he came back to the cart he was all talk and bluster, the expert appraising the situation.

"There's four games going on," he said. "Little League games. But they represent different levels and ages. Kids start off in the 'minors,' and work their way up to the 'majors.' This is the main diamond here, and it's leveled and graded and maintained with a crushed limestone infield."

He pointed across the way. "The diamonds on that side of the park aren't as good. That's where the kids in the minors play."

"So what are we going to do?" I asked.

"We'll watch the big kids," he said. "The majors."

My Spirit steered the cart toward the fancy crushed limestone infield and on into the outfield grass.