Okay, bang the drum slowly, professor. Muffle the cymbals. Kill the laugh track. You might say that Old Blue Eye is back. But that's as funny as this is going to get.

I feel I owe my friends an explanation as to where I've been all these weeks. Believe me, I would rather have been in a press box.

I lost an old friend the other day. He was blue eyed, impish, he cried a lot with me, laughed a lot with me, he saw a great many things with me. I don't know why he left me. Boredom perhaps. We read a lot of books together, we did a lot of crossword puzzles together, we saw films together. He had a pretty exciting life. He saw Babe Ruth hit a home run when we were both 12 years old. He saw Willie Mays steal second base, he saw Maury Wills steal his 104th base. He saw Rocky Marciano get up. I thought he led a pretty good life.

One night a long time ago he saw this pretty lady who laughed a lot, played the piano, and he couldn't look away from her. Later on, he looked on as I married this pretty lady. He saw her through 34 years, he loved to see her laugh, he loved to see her happy.

You see, the friend I lost was my eye. My good eye. The other eye, the right one, we've been carrying for years. We just let him tag along like Don Quixote's nag. It's been a long time since he could read the number on a halfback or tell whether a ball was fair or foul or even which fighter was down.

So, one blue eye is missing and the other misses him a lot.

So my best friend left me, at least temporarily, in a twilight world where it's always 9 o'clock on a summer night.

He stole away like a thief in the night and he took a lot with him.But not everything. He left a lot of memories. He couldn't take those with him. He just took the future with him and the present. He couldn't take the past.

I don't know why he had to go. I thought we were pals. I thought the things we did together we enjoyed doing together. Sure, we cried together. There were things to cry about.

But it was a long, good life.

I remember the days when we arranged all the marbles in a circle in the dirt in the lots in Connecticut. We played one-old-cat baseball. We saw curve balls together, we tried to hit them or catch them. We looked through a catcher's mask together. We were partners in every sense of the word.

He recorded the happy moments, the miracle of children, the beauty of a Pacific sunset, snow capped mountains, faces on Christmas morning. He allowed me to hit fly balls to young sons in uniforms two sizes too large, to see a pretty daughter march in halftime parades. He allowed me to see most of the major and exciting sports events of our time. I suppose I should be grateful.

He didn't drift when I was 12 or 15 or 27, but stuck around over 50 years or until we had a vault of memories. Still, I'm only human. I'd like to see again, if possible, a Rocky Marciano with his nose bleeding, behind on points and the other guy coming.

I quess I would like to see a Reggie Jackson with the count 3-2 and a Series game on the line, guessing fast ball.I guess I'd like to see a Rod Carew with men on first and second and no place to put him, and the pitcher wishing he were standing in the rain some place, reluctant to let go to the ball.

I'd like to see a Stan Musial crouched around a curve ball one more time. I'd like to see Don Drysdale trying not to laugh as a young hitter came up there with both feet in the bucket.

I'd like to see a Sandy Koufax just once more facing a Willie Mays with a no-hitter on the line. I'd like to see a Maury Wills with a big lead against a pitcher with a good move. I'd like to see a Roberto Clemente with the ball, a guy trying to go from first to third. I'd like to see Pete Rose sliding into home head-first.

I'd like once more to see Henry A. standing there with that quiet bat, a study in deadliness. I'd like to see Bob Gibson scowl at a hitter as if he had some nerve just to pick up a bat.I'd like to see Elroy Hirsch going for a long one from Bob Waterfield, a John Unitas in high-cuts picking apart a zone defense. I'd like to see a Casey Stengel walking the mound on his gnarled old legs to take a pitcher out, beckoning his gnarled old finger behind his back.

I'd like to see Sugar Ray Robinson or Mohammad Ali giving a recital, a ballet, not a fight.

Also, to be sure, I'd like to see a skyfull of stars, moonlight on the water, and yes, a royal flush peeking out as I fan out a pokerhand, and yes, a straight two-foot putt.

Come to think of it, I'm lucky. I saw all of those things. I see them yet.