Mojo League Baseball

Now, I don't want to sound as though I was jealous of Jeremy, merely because he is exactly the kind of guy I knew in college who got all the hot women, leaving for guys like me the engineering and ag majors.

For several innings, the score was knotted at 1-1, and then the Nats went ahead by one run. I'd seen this sort of tease before, of course, in games I'd attended. It was about time for the Sudden Collapse, like a marionette after the puppeteer drops dead.

At the start of the seventh inning, Jeremy left to use the bathroom. When he returned, he stared at the field and said, "What the hell's been going on here?" I looked down, ashamed. He'd been gone maybe five minutes, during which I was in charge. The bases were loaded with Cincinnati Reds, and there was not one out.

Jeremy took his seat. It was last call for beer. I asked if he wanted one, and he snapped: "No. I need to stay focused."

The first batter hit a sharp grounder, cleanly fielded by the first basemen, who threw home for the force. One out. Next batter, strike one, two, three. The last batter grounded wanly back to the pitcher.

It was the Reds' death knell. They never again mounted a serious challenge. In the bottom of the eighth, I called my daughter and told her I was at the game and the Nats were actually in the lead. "Listen to me, Dad," she said, deadly earnest. "You've got to leave now." But I knew I didn't. I had Jeremy.

The Nats won, 5-3.

As we walked out, I felt mostly elation. I could safely go to games again. And it really didn't bother me all that much that Jeremy's mojo was bigger than mine, that he was Mr. Mojo Risin'.

Size doesn't really matter. Ask any guy.

Gene Weingarten's e-mail address is weingarten@washpost.com.

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