The Gal of Summer

After the game, Bruce leads me to the fence near the dugout so I can try to get an autograph. The only autograph-seeking woman without a child in tow, I nervously squeeze into the crowd and tentatively extend my ball. The players appear dirty and dejected -- quite ordinary, actually -- as they file past. One takes my offering and, without a word or even a smile, scribbles something. Later, Bruce seems somewhat envious as he takes the ball and then hands it back. "You've got Jose Vidro there. That's kind of a big deal," he says, and although I was unable to match the face with the name, I feel unexpectedly grateful.

Before returning to Washington, we have dinner at Bernard's Surf, a cozy, dim restaurant in Cocoa Beach with lots of nostalgic Florida kitsch on the walls. Our waiter, a tall, fit Northeasterner in his 50s with bristly gray hair, tells us he's a Yankees fan.

"You like Nick Johnson?" I ask.

"Yeah, he was real good before he got injured. But I hear he didn't play too well yesterday," he says.

"He didn't play too well today, either," I tell him.

My first sports conversation with a stranger. That is the beginning and the end of it, but I swear I feel a tiny charge.

BACK HOME, I FOLLOW THE NEWS WITH DISGUST AS THAT SPOILSPORT SORIANO TRIES TO STEAL VIDRO'S SECOND-BASE JOB. I find I'm emotionally investing in the details of this soap opera: Soriano is the hot young(ish) thing, and Vidro, a 14-year vet with the Washington-Montreal franchise, is plagued by chronic knee problems. But Vidro is a three-time all-star himself and, unlike Soriano, a truly talented second baseman. Plus, he is obviously of good character, having signed a strange woman's baseball.

First, Soriano throws a tantrum, refusing to take his position in left field in a game against the Dodgers. The Nats threaten to put him on the disqualified list, potentially scuttling his eligibility for free agency (a huge financial windfall) after the season. It appears the Nats have called Soriano's bluff when, two days later in a game against the Cardinals, the $10 million stud takes up his spot out in left field. "I love this game. That's why I changed my mind," he declares. What spin, I think.

Four days later, when Soriano lets a ball sail over him in left field, allowing a run-scoring double, a coach suggests he may not be trying hard enough. I was starting to take the tiniest bit of pleasure in the sport, but Soriano's behavior is a turnoff.

By opening day, the Nats have six players on the disabled list, including three pitchers. This leaves their roster dangerously thin. (That is, according to my hometown paper; at this point I would not dare make a definitive baseball statement on my own.) The truth is, I don't yet know enough to dread a "thin" pitching staff. Instead, and maybe this will sound stupid or, worse, misleadingly girly, I am appalled at how frequently baseball players seem to be either laid low by injuries or playing through them. Maybe they should find a less hazardous occupation.

Post sportswriter Barry Svrluga quotes general manager Jim Bowden, referring to the team's error- and injury-ridden spring training season as "the most 'un-fun' . . . one nightmare after another."

And these people, with their stupid vanities and disobedient bodies, are supposed to make a fan out of me?