Everyone had gone home, and I was feeling sorry for myself. The spirits played by their own rules. And I was no more familiar with these spirit rules than with the Two Brothers rule or the Must be a Hitter rule.

Dave had told me that there was no point in sticking around if I didn't want to listen in on Mike, and Dee had said that I only hear what I want to hear.

Identical messages.

Although they had opposing baseball philosophies, they could agree on my faults. Pretty demoralizing.

She dismissed his Baseball Past, and he disdained her Baseball Present, and what was I supposed to do?

Night came, and I sat in the dark waiting for my spirit. Dave had gone off on business of his own, and it was irresponsible of him to abandon me in Dempseys Grove. Unprofessional.

I yearned for the comfort of my hotel room in Boston. I wanted to catch up on my reading-- Peterson's report on our lousy first half attendance, Skip Lu's pilot project (eight weeks late) for Operation Vegetables, even my Learn to Listen notes. And I wanted to watch Boston television.

Simple pleasures that were beyond my reach.

My spirit wanted me to think about Baseball Present. But how could I?

Jack McMahon. Not my problem. Victor Van Dorn. Not my problem. Blainey. Not my problem.

I had never been this alone before.

Time passed. Unpleasantly. No TV and no distractions-- that's what being alone is. Stewing in your own juices. Being stuck with no one but yourself.

Sleep was out of the question. In a portable grandstand, you can't even doze off. I did not sleep.

It bears repeating: I did not sleep. But all of a sudden it was broad daylight, and the golf cart was heading up the drive.

I was startled. "What time is it?" I asked. "What happened to sunrise?"

The big guy was pleased. "Did you think I wasn't coming back for you?"

"How long were you gone? What day is it?"

"Where are the kids?" asked Dave. "Are you hungry?"

"Is it tomorrow?" I asked.

"The Time / Space Displacement Collaterals are different in Baseball Present." He threw me a bag of peanuts. "I brought these for you."

"It's Saturday now, right?"

"Plus or minus 3.4 days. That's our margin of error. Pretty tight."

"Just tell me that it's Saturday."

"Have some peanuts, John. It's a beautiful day and there ain't any kids here."

He was right. We had the park to ourselves.

"Four baseball fields and no kids." He waved his arm around, a regular lord of the manor. "Do you know why, John?"

I still wanted to know what day it was.

"Insurance!" said Dave. He had a big smile on his face. "Too expensive! Insurance premiums are sky high. They're afraid of lawsuits. It's too dangerous to let kids play here. How's that grab ya?" He motioned me aboard.

"When we get back to Boston, will it be Saturday?"

"Kids can only play baseball under grownup supervision!" I got into the cart. The floor was littered with peanut shells. "That's how they do things in Dempseys Grove!"

He started the cart. "Those Fenway Park peanuts," he said. "I can't resist 'em." As we went up the drive he reached over to my bag of peanuts and helped himself. "Lucky I caught Renee, huh?"

Out of the park and into the town. "So this is Dempseys Grove," he said. "Nice town, John." I took some peanuts for myself then, and he admonished me: "Don't litter. Keep the shells in the golf cart."

I expected us to arrive in Boston momentarily.

"They make you thirsty, that's for sure," he said. "We'll get something to drink at Mike's house."

And the next thing I knew we were turning into Mike's driveway.

Dave drove right up to the front door, parked the cart to one side, and got out. When I stayed put, he said "Move it, sport, we're going in."

It was an order. He opened the door and I went in reluctantly. Followed Dave in to the kitchen. We could hear voices and sounds, but saw no one. Dave opened the refrigerator, and took out two cans of Diet Coke. "This ought to take care of us."

It didn't seem right to me, but I took one, opened it.

I had no sooner taken a drink when Deborah walked in on us, catching me in mid-swallow. I choked, sputtered, spit some out, then coughed until I got my breath back.

She did not see or hear me.

"Went down your wind pipe, huh?" said Dave. He spoke in conversational tones. "You want me to thump you on the back?"

Holly came in to the kitchen then, a four-year-old in tights. Cute as can be.

"She scared me," I said. "We shouldn't be here, Dave. Come on."

"You think she'll notice a couple of Cokes are missing?"

"Are you ready?" asked Deborah. She leaned down to adjust a ribbon in Holly's hair.

"Check out her purse," said Dave.

"That's my honey bun," she said, kissing the little girl. She took her car keys out of the purse, and I got my first close-up look at the Jordan photo button. Cool. They left the kitchen.

Amber and Jordan were in the living room. Deborah told Amber she'd be back in a few minutes.

"As soon as I drop Holly off at gymnastics," she said. "But you and Jordy should really be outside. It's a beautiful day."

"He looks nervous," said Dave. "Does he look nervous to you, John?"

"Jordan?" I asked. "Jordan looks nervous?"

"So does his sister," said Dave. "I think they're up to something."

"She looks okay to me," I said.

"I think we should stick around, John, don't you?"

As soon as her mother was out the door Amber was on the telephone. Whoever she talked to was expecting the call. "It's okay to come over now," she said. "My mom just left."

"I don't know if I like this," said Dave.

"Yes, he's got the money," said Amber. "Of course he's got the money."

I was suddenly scared. Deborah's car backed out of the driveway, and Jordan and Amber were home alone.

"What I'd really like to do is play baseball," said Jordan. "That's what I feel like doing." He was wearing his baseball glove.

"Pretty radical idea," said Dave.

"You can't," said Amber. "Mom just washed your uniform, and she'd kill you if you got it dirty again."

"These kids think you can only play if you're wearing a uniform," said Dave. "They don't know you can play in street clothes."

"The season's over with anyway," said Amber. "Mom has to hand your uniform in to Mrs. Ferguson."

"The real season isn't over," said Jordan. "The Champs aren't done with their season."

"Good for you, buddy," said Dave. "That's using the old bean."

"Quit talking," I said. I was very jumpy. All I knew about kids today is TV stuff. Drugs and gangs.

"Look out the window," said Dave. Some kid was at the door. A boy.

No child is safe. Not even in the suburbs.

The doorbell rang, and Amber said "He's here, Jordy. You better have that money ready."

Age didn't matter either. The bad stuff starts young.

"Maybe I shouldn't," said Jordan. "What if Dad finds out?"

"Dad's at work-- you don't have to worry about Dad," said Amber. She opened the door, and the boy came into the house. He was carrying a plastic grocery bag.

"Let's see your money, Jordan," said the kid. Tough guy talk.

"Let's see what you've got first," said Amber.

My heart was pounding, and I was scared enough to say a quick prayer for my grandchildren: don't let it be drugs. The dealer was no older than them. Which didn't make it any better.

"You first," said the boy. Jordan showed him an envelope full of cash, then counted it out. Forty dollars.

I was dizzy and had to sit down.

The kid took the money and then reached into his bag. Pulled out a piece of paper, handed it over to Jordan. "Here it is," he said. "Shane London's autograph."

My prayer had been answered. It wasn't drugs.

Jordan was happy as a clam as he took the treasured autograph. He read it, then said it: "Shane London." Again. "Shane London."

"Wait a minute," said Amber. "Where's the authenticity certificate?"

"Right here," said the kid. "In the bag."

"Hand it over, Tommy," she said.

"That's another forty dollars."

"Give it back to him, Jordan. This instant."

Jordan seemed puzzled. "Why?"

"He's trying to cheat you," she said. "Without the certificate you can't prove it's authentic."

"It's authentic," said Tommy. "I saw him sign it. He signed it right in front of me. At the baseball card show. As soon as I paid him the money he signed it. If you don't believe me ask my dad."

Amber took the money away from him. "No deal, Tommy. You told me we could get both for forty dollars."

"My dad said I should sell them separate."

"The deal is with you," she said. "Not your dad."

Tommy gave her the authenticity certificate. I walked over to look at it. A printed form that said Midland Sports Memorabilia Show at the top. After "Item" the words "Shane London autograph" had been written. There was an illegible signature beneath that, and a red date stamp.

I was shocked. "This is a rip off, Dave. This is a swindle."

"Give me my money, Amber," said Tommy.

"Are you satisfied, Jordan?" she asked. "Does it look okay to you?"

He said it did.

She gave Tommy the money, then demanded her ten per cent.

"What ten per cent?"

"My ten per cent," she said. "The agent's commission."

"You don't have to worry about this kid," said Dave.

"I have to pay you?" said Tommy. He seemed slow on the uptake.

"Four dollars," she said.

"Why can't Jordan pay?"

"He's the buyer," she said. "I get my commission from the seller, Tommy. That's you."

"That's not fair," said the kid.

"That's the rules, Tommy. If it wasn't for me you wouldn't have a sale. I got you two together so I get the commission."

"I'm not going to pay," he said.

She told Jordan to return the merchandise, and Tommy backed down. Gave her the four dollars and left the house.

"I still don't think Dad would like it," said Jordan.

"The only one who wouldn't like it is Grandpa," she said.

"Grandpa Al?"

"Our real Grandpa," she said. "Uncle John."

I was floored. She knows I'm her grandpa?

"Grandpa Al is a Dodgers fan," said Jordan. "He doesn't like the Champs."

"Grandpa Al isn't our real grandpa, he's just married to Grandma Susan."

"Time to go, Johnny boy." Dave was standing at the door.

I was slow to get up. I wanted to hear what else Amber would say, but the spirit outfoxed me: turned off the audio, turned off my hearing. Just what Deirdre had done to me in Florida.

When I climbed back into the golf cart, he asked me what I thought, and I told him it made me mad as all get out that Jordan had paid forty dollars for an autograph that should be free.

"I don't know what you're complaining about, John. It seems to me that forty dollars is a pretty good price."

"A good price!" I said. "You need your head examined if you think forty dollars is a good price."

"Think about it, John." He cracked open a peanut. "It cost you six million dollars for that same signature."