As I type this, the Yankees are finally home for Game 7 of the ALCS ... I live with a Red Sox fan, too, and we cannot stand to be in the same room while the game is going on. New York City so loves its baseball team that it's incredible ... I can't even describe the pride in this city as the team continues to play so well. Cheer them on! The next stop: the World Series!

THIRD INNING: REPLY

Dear Snitch, he had written in his clumsy, hastily-learned script. It's been a long four years.

Michael studied the almost-blank paper before him. With bleary eyes, he looked over the distance between the words he had already set down and the empty bottom of the page.

It's been a long four years.

That did not even begin to describe it.

There was much that Michael wanted to say that he did not think he would ever say again. I've thought about you a lot, Snitch, or, Sometimes I still dream about being with you. But Michael was wary of eye and of heart, and he knew that it would be unwise to say exactly what he felt. Instead, with clumsy, reluctant hands, he penned:

I guess that seeing you is the least I can do. I practice with the team everyday but Sunday. So how about noon, in Battery Park? Don't come looking for me with the team. You won't find me there. Sincerely, Michael Smith.

His heart fell even as he read it. He sounded cold, almost angry, not at all the way he wanted to be seen. But then again, Michael knew that anything else would be dangerous. He was no longer sixteen years old, and as a consequence, he was no longer blissfully oblivious of the impossible nature of an alternative lifestyle.

Michael sat on the edge of his bed. It was no more than a mattress raised from the floor by a bad set of rusty, creaking box springs, but at the moment, as he put his entire exhausted weight on it, the bed became a refuge, and he loved the fact that it was indeed entirely his. He put his face in his hands once again. "What have I done?"

He slept a little, after that, shirtless, trying to pass unscathed through the intense heat of the sunny July afternoon. It was only the second practice Michael had ever missed since training the first time with the New York Americans, and in his honesty, Michael felt fine with the break. The first practice he had missed had been yesterday.

But his nerves prevented him from sleeping well. By now, Michael was tired, but heavy as his eyes were, they would not close. Instead, he was awake, and thinking.

Awake, and thinking.

Thinking.

Time seemed to stop, the singular clock ticking, ticking, ticking, keeping Michael awake. He lapsed back into old thoughts, old times. Sweat dampened his skin, the sheets, his hair, his mattress. Tossing and turning, Michael's mind was full of apprehension.

Around noon, Michael walked the letter to the post office. He bought a stamp and licked the back before sticking it to the envelope. He had not even put a name above the street address, just an apartment number. He could not bring himself to hope that this reunion could honestly take place.

But the chain still had not left his neck.

He went home, and around two o'clock, Jack Chesbro came to visit. Michael lay in bed, weak, desperate, his gray boxer shorts slightly crooked so that he was uncomfortable when there was a knock at the door.

"It's Ches," came the call.

"Door's open," Michael replied.

Jack came in, tentatively. "Hey, Smith," he said, smiling. "How're ya feelin', buddy?"

"Not so good, Ches. Maybe it's the flu."

"Your building ain't the cleanest place," Jack said. "We'll get ya outta here, you'll catch every sickness that comes in the front door."

"Nah, Jack, it ain't that bad." He gave a cough, one that passed for illness even though it simply had come from smoking too many cigarettes and too many cigars. "S'the first time I been sick in a while."

"Yah gonna be alright soon, Smith? We all know that you don' skip outta practice, ever, so you's gotta be nice an' sick now."

"Yeah, Ches, nice an' sick."

Jack Chesbro laid a kind hand on his teammate's clammy forehead. "Feel better, Michael, alright?"

"I'll be back Monday, Ches." Michael answered with real warmth. "Keep a place open for me, okay?"

Jack Chesbro's face crinkled into a kind smile. "Alright, Smith. The boys say hello. They's anxious ta know how you're doin'."

"Tell them, Great."

"I'll tell them you're alive, an' make 'em wonder how much alive you are." He winked and rose from the edge of the bed. "Okay, Smith. We'll see ya Monday, but don' rush yer recovery."

"Don't worry, I'll be fine soon."

"Good boy, Smith. Bye."

"Bye, Ches."

Michael heard the door close. Then his apartment was quiet, and he rolled over onto his other side. The bed creaked beneath him.

He was all wound up now that Ches had visited. Michael had few friends ... none, actually. But Jack Chesbro had a real warmth about him. He tried to make the team feel like a team, a group of friends indeed. Michael appreciated Jack Chesbro's efforts, and knew that he could go to Jack with just about anything he needed. He could talk to Jack, ask Jack for help ... except for this one thing, this one thing ...

His fingers suddenly went to the chain. And on this hot July afternoon, suddenly Michael's curiosity got the best of him. He rose and stalked quietly, almost unwillingly, to the heavy green safe next to his worn, broken dresser. Michael opened it, and his big strong hands went to the back of the safe, in the darkness, and felt for the old dilapidated box. As if it were dangerous, he pulled it carefully forth, and set it on the desk, taking a seat before it.

Michael opened the box. Inside was a mismatched multitude from his past, newspaper clips, photographs.

It was almost too much for Michael to bear as he sorted through the papers and the pictures. Tenderly, he looked at them, and set them aside. The Strike, his days as a newsie, a group photo that had been published in the paper. But at the bottom was the thing for which he had really been looking. At the bottom was a singular, dog-earred photograph.

Michael's arm was around Snitch, and Snitch was smiling widely. There was no mistaking the feelings so obviously passing between the boys.

Michael put the photograph down. He looked away.