Now the fans were getting on his back. Taking too much time. Looking confused. Scratching himself on the mound. In a flurry of hungry impatience, the drug-addled bleacherpeople tossed paper cups and programs into centerfield, where Freddy Lynn dutifully picked them up.

The infield chatter began, Burleson, Hobson, Remy rapping their gloves and bouncing on their front cleats: "C'mon Bobby babay, lessgo, Bobby BABAY lessgo lessgo, c'mon, pepper'n in ayer c'mon babay..."

The time had come for action. Bobby had studied history long enough to know it was totally irrelevant in fact; he had played craps enough at work to know that if you roll a seven, that still doesn't make you any more likely to roll another seven on your next throw. The future was always near but also unforseen, dependent entirely on the here and now.

Now Bobby couldn't throw much of a fastball, or a slider, or a knuckler, or a sinker -- but a change-up... Foster stood out there, and poised, waiting to pop like a firecracker. If Bobby could surprise him with a blooping, off-speed, curving ephus ball, he might just catch Foster off-balance. Anyway, the result could be no worse if Bobby pumped a mediocre fast ball right down the pipe.

So Bobby gathered himself up on the mound, his flabby thighs knocking around as he worked into his stretch-looking like he knew what he was doing -- and kicked and threw his arm around across his body very fast ("remember to snap your wrist" the coach always said) and popped the ball from his hand. It arced high high high and Foster, deceived by the apparent force of Bobby's wind-up and throwing motion, started to swing too early. When he saw the pitch bloop, he checked his swing and tried to begin again. But his feet were already crossed from his first effort and he hacked away spastically, twisting his ankles and falling down...

Strike three.

Bobby, frozen in his follow-up, watched the scene get madder and madder, with believing awe. His teammates swarmed him, they banged him and they laughed insanely: Fisk, Burleson, Scott, Yastrzemski, Rice...Lee and Zimmer hugged each other in ecstasy, 14-year-old girls kissing Bobby wetly, yelping fans tried to do everything but get inside of his skin.

"We're number one!" came the traditional chorus of world champions and winners and beery fans. WORLD CHAMPIONS. The words were sinking in like the cold champagne in his shirt. Carlton Fisk was taping a Skoal commercial as Campbell popped the booze, and Ken Harrelson was modelling his most feathery and ridiculous hat for worldwide color television, and Howard Cosell stepped up to the star pitcher, pushing himself importantly through the mob, "Excuse me, let me thru, PLEASE, excuse ME...

"Thank you Don we have the major leagues' newest hero with us here tonight and tell us Sulli -- was the ephus pitch you threw to George Foster n the bottom of the ninth with two out and a man on third for real or was it just a fluke?"

"Well I figured I could throw Foster off balance Howard, Carlton told me he was waiting to slam it, and I figured by taking my time and appearing nervous I could make him impatient and anxious -- you know, make him expect a fast ball. Which he did. It's all psychological, Howard."

"Well that's a very well-reasoned analysis of the situation Bob Sullivan and Sulli, if I may call you that, you're off to a fine, fine start to your career. Do you have any plans for the future now that you're a free agent?"

Glancing away from the torrid spectre of Howard Cosell's face and the microphone extension that had been thrust into his eyes, Sully saw Bill Lee reading from a book of Zen Buddhist riddles.

"No Howard, I've always been a free agent, I guess. You know, I pitch like I drink -- one at a time, please."