I keep thinking the word "home," and I don't mean home plate. There were only two runs scored yesterday, neither by me. The game was suspended in the top of the 11th, a tie score of two and two. We'll finish up next time the Expos are in town, in a month.

I just wanted to get back to New York. We're playing the Mets this weekend, but this year I won't sleep at home in Brooklyn. I'll be home in Fairfield.

It still hasn't sunk in, after all these months, that a guy like me is living in Connecticut. I still love Brooklyn, but I fell in love with a New Englander. Her colonial house is now mine, too. And for four months, during the off-season, I took care of the house, and her. And her little boy.

It's been over a month since I've been home, almost a month and a half. If I played for the Mets, it wouldn't be so bad. But it was the St. Louis Cardinals that recruited me a few years ago. So Busch Stadium is my professional home. And this is the first time this season that I'll be even close to the area of Fairfield. It's been the Midwest and South mostly so far. Maybe when we play in California in a couple weeks, Angela and the kids could fly out and we could all go to Disneyland. Yeah, Sam will still be in school, but it's kindergarten. I think they could let her have the time off.

I think about all this on the flight to Kennedy and then in the taxi to Fairfield. (The cabbie is a nice young college student by the name of John. He's a newlywed, too, and hasn't been driving a cab that long, although he's already thinking of quitting.)

Then I am really finally home. The white picket fence, the oak tree, the columns on the porch. And inside are the people I love most.

I didn't tell them I was coming home. They think I'm staying over in New York. Angela will bring the kids to see the games tomorrow and Sunday. I wanted to surprise them. I timed this just right, so that Angela will have been home from work for maybe fifteen minutes.

She's one of the vice-presidents at Wallace and McQuade, the fourteenth largest advertising agency in the country. I'm very proud of her, but it has been an adjustment for me, being married to a career woman. My first wife, Marie, was a stay-at-home mom, and she would always be waiting for me when I was on the road. She said once that she got kind of bored sometimes and was thinking of taking an art class, but I told her that was silly when she should be home taking care of Sam. I feel kind of bad about that now, especially because of how she died, and how she suffered before she died.

I want to do a better job with Angela, give her more freedom to be herself. And the weird thing is, I mean weird for somebody from my neighborhood, I actually like that Angela has a life outside of mine. She's never bored, and I don't think I'll ever get bored with her. She's too full of surprises.

Like the fact that she's not actually home.

"Daddy!"

"Tony, Tony!"

"Mr. Micelli, what are you doing home?"

"Uh, I live here, Adelaide."

Adelaide Brubaker is our housekeeper. Someone had to take over when I left for Spring training. She looks like a human apple doll, with her white hair in a bun. She's much more grandmotherly than Angela's mother, Mona. The kids like her and she's a pretty good cook. I feel kind of territorial about the house but she's nonthreatening of course.

"Daddy's home!" Sam exclaims, and I think of the old song. But I'm not home to stay, not till the season's over.

"Daddy!" Jonathan squeals.

"He's not—" Sam begins.

I shake my head and she stops. I haven't adopted Jonathan and of course his father is still alive. But I think of myself as more his father than Michael is. Jonathan is only three and I wonder sometimes if he can remember a time before we met.

The kids rush me and I scoop them up into my arms. Homecoming is so sweet. But.

"Where's Angela?"

"Mrs. Micelli called and said she's working late. I'm sure if she'd known you were coming home—"

"Well, I wanted it to be a surprise."

"It is. But a nice one."

"Thanks."

"I'll go put out an extra plate."

Home plate, I think.

The kids and I catch up till and then during dinner. Jonathan has a bigger vocabulary than when we met seven months ago, but Sam still dominates the conversation. Sometimes Angela and I joke that Sam will be a TV reporter or similar when she grows up.

I love seeing the kids, and it's nice to see Adelaide, too, although I don't know her well of course. But this doesn't feel like home without Angela. I wonder if it felt like home to her without me.

Dinner is fine, maybe not as good as my cooking, but not bad. I wonder if I can make pancakes for everyone tomorrow morning. The game's not till around 2, although of course I'd have to get down to Shea Stadium ahead of time.

The kids are excited about seeing me play this weekend. Well, Jonathan doesn't really understand, but Sam's enthusiasm is contagious.

After dinner, Sam insists that the three of us go outside and play baseball. I keep it simple since Jonathan is so little. He can't even lift Sam's Nerf bat. But he can catch, kind of. The main thing is we have fun. But I can't help thinking that maybe someday I can coach their Little League teams. Well, maybe not, since I'll be on the road for years to come. But maybe for the next kid.

Angela and I have talked about it and we decided we'll wait till New Year's Eve for her to go off the Pill. (She switched from the diaphragm because the Pill allows for more spontaneous sex.) It started as a joke, that we'd hold off on kids together till the '80s, but it really does seem to be the best timing. Jonathan would be at least four by the time she'd have the baby, and Sam would be eight. And if it takes a few months or even years, well, we'll definitely have fun trying.

Jonathan has just caught a meatball I threw, when Angela's black Jaguar pulls up and Mona honks in greeting. Angela barely waits for the car to stop before she flings herself out and into my arms. This is home, this is home.

"Tony! You're home!"

"Hey, Baby, I wasn't gonna miss your birthday weekend." The birthday is just a coincidence. But she is turning 29 on Sunday. I wish we could do something special, but I'm gonna have to be in Philadelphia Monday. Well, we'll celebrate a little early.

"Hey, Stranger, how are you?"

"Good, Mone. You?"

"Perfect as always."

I chuckle and then I hug her, too. And everyone's hugging everyone and this is my family. Well, I wish Pop was here, too, but he's coming to the games of course. He never misses when I'm at Shea.

Mona can't stay since she's got a date, but she will be at the games. We stay goodnight to her and then Angela and I put the kids to bed. I've missed that, too.

Adelaide is downstairs, watching Supertrain. Hey, whatever makes her happy.

She's a live-in. Angela never had live-in housekeepers before me. So Adelaide's in my old room, well, the bedroom I had in October and November. Angela and I waited till our last wedding before I moved into her room. Um, yeah, we got married in Las Vegas, back in September, but most people don't know that. There was some innocent bigamy going on, but that's all straightened out now and I've been her only husband for almost six months.

In our bedroom, Angela lights candles and I put the tape player on low. We don't have much time to set the atmosphere but then we don't need much atmosphere. All I really need is her.

And, yeah, we could spend the rest of the night catching up, but it's not like I haven't been calling home. We both want to do what we can't do over the phone.

She's still in her work clothes, except for the high heels she took off when we all got upstairs. She dresses so modestly for work, but not mousy. She's told me she tries to convey an image of professionalism and authority. She can't be too feminine, because that would be distracting, but she can't be too masculine either, because then she'd be criticized for that. I'm lucky I guess, I just wear my jersey for work and there's no problems with me looking distractingly masculine.

I'm in a jacket but no tie, the way Coach likes us to travel in public during the season. You know, nice and approachable, but not sloppy.

I take off my shoes and socks, and then we slow-dance barefoot to oldies. It feels so good to hold her again, move with her again. Yes, we want a more intimate version, but we've both missed this, too.

After awhile, we take off each other's jackets, hers perfectly matching her blouse, skirt, and this sort of not-a-scarf-not-a-tie thing. Then she nestles back against me and we sway some more.

We start kissing and slowly unbuttoning, unhooking, and unzipping each other, letting clothes fall in one spot and dancing away from them. I resist the urge to tidy up.

But I don't resist the urge to guide her towards the bed when we're down to our underwear.

"I've missed this bed," I say as we lie down.
"It's missed you."

She eases down my boxers and holds me.

"And what have you missed, Angie?"

She blushes but manages to tease, "The thing that misses me most."

Well, my eyes, ears, mouth, brain, and heart have missed her, too, but this part is the most obvious about what it wants and needs.

I ease down her panties and ask, "Have you missed me?"

"See for yourself."

I move one hand between her legs. "Mmm, yes, I think you have."

"Oh, Tony," she whispers in my ear.

We were really loud the first few times we were together, but those were in hotels. We've had to train ourselves to be quiet for sex at home. But then, it's not like we're new to the sexually active parent roles. We were just rusty, me more than her actually, because I was having sex on the road during the Spring and Summer, while she last had Michael in this bed in August.

Yeah, it's a little weird following in another guy's footsteps, so to speak. I mean, not that I'm used to virgins or anything, but I'd never been with a widow or divorcée before her. And she's, mostly through no fault of her own, a double divorcée. It would've been triple if we hadn't hit it off so well.

Anyway, we've done what we can to make this feel like my bed more than Michael's. And as she's pointed out, it's not like he was home all that much. An absence of a month or so would've been nothing to him. How he could stand to be away from this beautiful, desirable, secretly volcanic woman for months at a time is beyond me.

I want to be in her so bad, so much, but I have to make it just right, give her some pleasure now, just enough to make her want more. I don't get guys who don't do foreplay. Not just that it's selfish, but it's not like you don't benefit if you make a woman feel good. You can just do what my teammate Davey calls "the old Hand Solo" if you're just in it for you.

Besides, I love Angela. I am crazy about my wife! And this is the best way to show her that.

She keeps quietly sighing my name and gasping, "More!" Until finally she moves me into her and then we move together, and it's so good, so good, the best!

"Welcome home, Tony," she teases, doing this hip-roll that I have never encountered before and still haven't gotten over after six months.

"It's good to be home," I tease back, entering "the front door" again and again.

And I wish I could do this all weekend, but New York is my home, too, and I've got a responsibility to go back, even if it's as part of the visiting team.