Put Me In, Coach

We fell behind in our third game as well, also at Fenway. Just nine more outs and we'd be driving home as the tournament's biggest losers. My dream was turning into a nightmare. But suddenly our bats came alive. We stopped taking photos of the stadium and started bouncing shots into the "stands" of painted spectators. We exploded for 16 runs, and suddenly we were on a one-game winning streak.

The victory entitled us to keep playing, and we made it two in a row with another come-from-behind win. This one was highlighted by a game-ending double play turned by our elder statesman, Rodney, who's still crowing about it.

Our reward this time was a 5 p.m. game at Wrigley, where we put up five runs in the first inning. But like the real-life tenants of the Friendly Confines, we fizzled down the stretch, destroying our chance at the championship. Finally bounced from the tournament, we limped into the bar and grill in the center of the complex, where we rehashed the day over a few cold ones. A couple of players dutifully lamented the loss, but after five games in the desert sun, most of us were happy to be off our feet. My childhood fantasies had never included so many aching bones and sore muscles. Everyone on our team started trading painkillers like they were baseball cards.

An hour later, sinking into the comfort of the hotel hot tub, we rationalized that winning it all would have required playing at least two more games. Even Ernie Banks ("Let's play two!") would have been daunted.

When I returned home the next morning, I hobbled out of the car and collapsed on the couch.

"You look awful," my wife said. "Are you okay?"

"Like a dream come true," I groaned.

John Rosenthal last wrote for Travel about SkyBark, an L.A. club for dogs and their owners.