I had a ballclub to run, two spirits to please, and a third spirit to get ready for. That was my state of mind in mid-July. We had won nine out of ten since the All Star break and opened a ten-day homestand with a bunch of patsies: Toronto, Kansas City, Oakland.

We turned a corner on attendance, with twenty nine thousand for the opening game with the Jays. Our best Monday night crowd of the season. We won the ballgame 6-4 behind the pitching of Dunham, Fitzgerald, Guerrero, and Johnson.

A tone was established in the very first inning. Dunham shook off the sign from his catcher, and the fans yelled, "Trust me Teddy! Trust me!" For the rest of the home stand, the fans watched pitcher and catcher closely, waiting for any chance to sound the new battle cry.

Fun.

Raul Guerrero got John Olmstead in a key situation in the eighth, and afterward credited his psychic with having prepared him for it. Trust Me told reporters that it was another victory for the psychics, and Bee Jacquez said that the psychic had warned them about John Olmstead.

Jamal Toosley wasn't happy at all this fuss over the psychics. He accused the reporters of making a big production out of nothin, and said that when you get right down to it, this was a team victory.

You can't blame the big first baseman. He had homered in the fifth to provide our margin of victory, and Nifty Downstreet had made a spectacular running catch to take Toronto out of an inning. They deserved more than a little credit for the win, but the psychic stuff was more fun for the media.

Dennis Hominy stayed with Jamal. When Jamal said that Ziplock should grow up a little, Dennis seized on it, asked Jamal if there was a "rift" between him and Ziplock, and Jamal said "No, there ain't no rift, I just think it's time he grow up a little, start actin his age."

Trouble in the Clubhouse. You heard it first from Dennis. Personality Conflicts with the Champs.

By this time he was the only person in town treating the psychics in a negative fashion. He had been first to break the news, and felt an ownership in the story.

It didn't hurt us.

Attendance exceeded thirty-six thousand the following night, and we lost 7-1 in a game that was much closer than the score indicates. Shane London was starter and loser, pitching seven solid innings and leaving the game after walking the first man he faced in the eighth. The score was 2-1 at that point, but our bullpen quickly took us out of it.

But we'd lost the game before then. We'd lost it in our half of the seventh when Jamal Toosley struck out with the bases loaded. Nobody blamed the bullpen. It was a tough night for our hitters, one run on just five hits. Jamal had left six men on base and gone oh for four.

The guy is 6'3", 240 pounds, and when he has a bad day at the office you give him a wide berth. You stay away from him. You respect his privacy. You don't stick a microphone in his face.

If you want someone to knock the bullpen, why not talk to Shane London? That's what Dennis Hominy did, but the Big Infant spit out his usual venom against John Courtland, stated for the umpteenth time that he would not be back with the Champs next year. No matter what. Not with John Courtland as the owner.

Which was old hat, even for Dennis, so he went to Jamal Toosley.

"We had our chances." That's what you're supposed to say when you lose a game like this, and it's what Jamal would have said if Dennis hadn't started in on the psychics again: the psychics took you out of the game, and Jamal bit on it, said he was sick and tired of hearing about them damn psychics, and if they were so good then why did Toronto get all those runs?

Clubhouse man Willie Burrell was shooing everyone out. "Quick turnaround," he said. "Day game tomorrow," and Dennis cut off his interview. He had enough to keep his new story going: Dissension in the Locker Room.

"I need my beauty sleep," said Willie. "Move it on out of here."

Players don't like to hang around after a loss. Neither do the reporters. The place emptied out fairly quickly. Jamal was one of the last to leave.

He couldn't find his car keys. Searched the locker room, asked Willie if he'd seen them, retraced his steps from before the game. No luck.

Keeshon Gillings had stolen them. That's why he couldn't find them. And Jamal left without them.

We concluded the Toronto series with a rare Wednesday afternoon day game, and a good crowd. 22,000.

Jamal rode in to work via limo with duplicate keys from home. He continued to look for the originals before the start of the game, enlisting the support of his teammates. Since all of them were in on it, they were happy to assist. They asked if he'd checked here or looked there, reported back that they weren't in the weight room, how about the showers?

Jamal fretted right up until game time.

Remained distracted when he took the field for the first inning. In the bottom of the inning, he took his place in the on-deck circle, batted and grounded into a force play to retire the side. Where could they be? When the Champs batted in the second he sat on the bench, but left the dugout twice to look in specific places suggested by helpful teammates.

In the third inning, he received a phone call from the bullpen. Ziplock Johnson offered to call Madame Ruthie for him. He said no and hung up the phone. Told his teammates about it. They said why did you say no. They said you should do it. But don't have Johnson call. Call her yourself.

He said he'd think about it.

Everyone was in on it. That was the dynamics. It was a team effort.

He led off the fourth. Singled to left, scored later in the inning, which put him in a good frame of mind. His teammates continued to egg him on: How can it hurt you? She'll either tell you where the keys are or she won't. He was weakening.

While Toronto was batting in their half of the fifth, Keeshon planted the keys in the clubhouse, called the bullpen to tell them where they were, and the bullpen guys telephoned the psychic with the information. When we came up, Jamal told everyone he would call her.

Bee Jacquez led off the inning as Jamal entered the clubhouse to make the call. Jacquez stepped out of the batter's box frequently. His stalling was founded on the belief that the longer the phone call the more credible it would be to Jamal. The psychic told Jamal she could help him, but only if he told her everything. What happened when you got out of the car? Jacquez fouled out to the first baseman.

Lead-off man Tony Bonifante was next up. Jamal and Madame Ruthie retraced his journey from parking lot into the player's entrance and into the clubhouse. She said the car keys were still on his person at this time. He said he already knew that.

Bonifante intended to foul off a lot of pitches, step out of the batter's box, and kill as much time as possible, but saw something he liked on the first pitch and smacked a line drive into left field for a base hit.

Ray Burns Junior stepped up to the plate, and Madame Ruthie was just getting warmed up. Keeshon Gillings came into the clubhouse to tell Jamal to hurry it up. And stuck around to make sure the big slugger found the keys.

Bonifante took a big lead at first base, drew a throw from the pitcher, immediately did it again. The psychic described parts of the locker room to Jamal, as she'd been instructed to do. He said he was in a hurry. Just tell me if you see the car keys.

She said she saw a man whose name begins with "D." Daniel? Donald? Dennis? David? Dennis? Yes, you talked to Dennis?

"You mean after the game?" he asked. "I lost 'em after the game?"

"He asked you questions," she said. "Is he a reporter? Is he with a man with a camera?"

Ray Burns Junior struck out. Nifty Downstreet came up to bat.

It was Jamal's turn to take his place in the on deck circle, but he was still in the locker room, talking to Ziplock Johnson's psychic.

Oh oh.

Trouble. Toronto's manager wanted to know what was going on. So did the home plate umpire. Peeler told them Toosley was in the bathroom, said he wasn't taking him out of the game, said he'd be there. Toronto said they would lodge a protest but accepted the ump's ruling to continue the game without forcing the Champs to remove Toosley.

Buck and Perry speculated on the commotion at home plate, but were quick to notice that the Champs slugger was not in the on deck circle, and theorized that he was getting attention from the trainer, possibly for a hamstring or muscle pull when he'd run the bases in the fourth inning. Buck said he thought Jamal had favored his leg after he'd scored. He more or less made this up. Perry said he'd noticed it too. Maybe he pulled up lame.

Play resumed. Bonifante started dancing around first base again, trying to draw a throw from the pitcher. Anything to drag the inning out.

Which was what Madame Ruthie was doing. Making it sound authentic. She described the cameraman to Jamal Toosley, asked where he was standing in relation to him and Dennis.

Nifty Downstreet hit a sharp grounder between first and second. A diving stop by the second baseman, who threw out Nifty from his knees.

End of inning. Our guys went to their positions slowly. Pitcher Nicky Skipper conferred with the plate umpire over the baseballs, then sat down at the mound and worked on ridding some imaginary mud from his cleats before taking his warmup pitches. Still no Jamal.

The keys were on the floor, she said. "They fell out of my pants?" asked Jamal. She didn't know, but that's where she saw them. "I kicked 'em somewhere?" That's what he did. But they were right in plain sight, right in front of him. Until the cameraman stepped on them. And gave them a kick. They went flying across the room. But she could see them. They were still there.

She told him where to look, he found the keys, he grabbed them, charged into the dugout, got his glove and streaked onto the field, holding them aloft: "I found 'em! I found 'em!"

Lose your car keys? Call a psychic.

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Courtland's Spirits
by Donald Lehmann