When Dave dropped me off in Boston I felt that enough time had gone by that it had to be Monday by now. But he talked like it was Friday night. He drove the golf cart right to the front door of my hotel. "Maybe I'll see you at tomorrow's game, okay?"

"At Fenway?" I asked.

"You need to scout Big Cecil," he said. "Right?"

"Cecil Roofer?"

"He'd be great down the stretch," said Dave. "Just the kind of insurance you need."

"Sure," I said. "I'll do that." I got out of the cart. "I'll go to the park and look him over."

Not a firm commitment on my part. It was more like I was humoring him, going along with the idea that it was Friday night.

I went up to my room without stopping in the bar or hanging around the lobby. I was too tired to turn on the TV, and went to bed thinking it was Monday, the night before the All Star game.

When I woke up the next day, I was uncertain about the day. Called the front desk to find out. What day is it today?

The clerk took it in stride. "Saturday," he said.

"July the Sixth?" I asked.

"That's right," he said. "Saturday, July Sixth."

"Thank you," I said. The All Star game was Tuesday. The Ninth.

"Any time."

Three days to go. Three days of Dave hanging around, three days of his snoopy questions and unwanted advice, his paranoia and job insecurity and fears of downsizing.

I decided to leave town. Escape. I got the hotel people to arrange for a car rental while I enjoyed a late breakfast and read the Boston Globe. Some bad news: The Champs had lost to Milwaukee, another blown save for Ziplock Johnson, and the Indians had moved a game closer to us.

When my car was ready, I brought my bags down to the lobby, then took off. New York City was my goal, and I drove west on the Mass Pike, then cut over to I-84 and drove through Hartford and Waterbury and Danbury. Traffic grew heavier the closer I came to the state line so I scotched my plans to head down to the Big Apple and continued west on 84, crossing the Hudson at Newburgh.

I had the radio on the entire time. Listened to the Red Sox-Tigers game until the reception got bad, then switched to a Mets game.

One of the Mets guys started giving scores and mentioned that the Champs and Brewers were scoreless in the second. His partner said "Peeler Fitch has his hands full with that bullpen-- they can't pitch unless their psychics give them the okay," and then he chuckled and said that the Champs miss the steadying influence of Dane Mackowitz. "I'm sure that right about now John Courtland is having second thoughts about releasing him earlier this year."

That was fun for me-- hearing my name mentioned by a National Leaguer. I assured the Mets duo I was not having second thoughts about dumping the veteran catcher. I felt terrific. Nobody that I knew had any idea where I was. Not one single person.

Freedom! That's what I felt. I was free. The big overweight guy could prowl Fenway Park and its vicinity as much as he wanted but he wouldn't find me. I would lay low, then drive back to Boston in time for my All Star game rendezvous with the elegant Spirit of Baseball Present, Deirdre.

After Port Jervis, I headed into the mountains and started losing the station intermittently, then lost it entirely. I turned south at Scranton and immediately ran into extensive roadwork, construction zones, so I got off at Wilkes-Barre, drove around for awhile, then found a place to stay in Wyoming. A perfect hideout.

Dinner at an Italian restaurant, a scenic drive along the Susquehanna River, then back to my motel for some TV before turning in for the night. No cable. Just the regular stations they get in Scranton and Wilkes-Barre. With the local sports anchor giving the results of the day, holding back on our score, saving it for last-- we had lost again-- as he reports on the discovery that there's two psychics advising the Champs bullpen.

He treats it humorously, and then says "for more on this story, here's Dennis Hominy from our sister station in Central City," and a grim-visaged Dennis states that the Champs are the laughingstock of the league because their relief pitchers rely on psychics. The problem was first uncovered by catcher Dane Mackowitz who was then released by the team after a brilliant Hall of Fame career by club owner John Courtland. Courtland is currently in Boston, but has refused to appear on camera or return our phone calls.

How do I describe Dennis Hominy's tone? Controlled indignation? Borderline hysteria?

I refused to appear on camera?

Dennis acts like one of those investigative journalists who uncovers fraud and corruption in high places. He's got that part of the role down pat. What's missing is the part at the end, the part where they show the head of the crooked operation dodging cameramen and declining to be interviewed.

I fill it in for him: cover my face with both hands. "No comment," I tell my TV. "We have no comment at this time, Dennis."

The Scranton sports man jokes with his weather person, "So who's your psychic, Marie?" and she says she could use a psychic to tell us when this cold front is coming through the mountains, but for now she's just going to have to rely on the U.S. Weather Service, and they both get a laugh out of that. And so do I. They place the story in its proper context.

My immediate impulse is to call my son, but protocol and hierarchy dictate otherwise. If I call anyone it should be my GM. But I don't want to talk to the GM.

Why call anyone? It's a non-story, a non-issue. Especially when viewed from Wyoming, Pennsylvania.

But I know the calls are piling up in Boston, so I call Mike.

This is what I plan to tell him: We've lost another in Milwaukee, and the Indians have won again, but there's no cause for alarm. We're heading into the All Star break at the top of our division. That's the bottom line. We're still in first place.

Deborah answered the phone. "Hello?" I heard Mike asking her who it was, and felt a deep flush of guilt for having been in her home without her knowing it. "Hello?"

I panicked. Hung up on her.