Our hero has dreamed of this moment, has envisioned it in his head for years. He pictured it when he threw a tennis ball against the stairs at the apartment complex that he lived at, he pictured it when he was playing Little League or softball, he pictured it whenever work got way too boring and it was too easy to dream of such things. He saw it- the last chance, the last ups. Of being behind and being the hero. Of coming up when all the chips are down and making the big play.

He's watched it happen over the years, felt the drama. He can still remember Kirk Gibson's miracle home-run in the '88 World Series or Dave Henderson for the Sox in '86. He dreamed of himself in similar situations and wanted to feel what it was like. He wanted to be up against the wall, he wanted to play hero, he wanted to show Grace Under Pressure. He was sure he was up to the task. He knew he had it in him.

On a beautiful Saturday afternoon, with all of San Francisco and the Bay as his backdrop, he found himself there. One down, one on, two runs behind. Somehow he knew it was going to end like this, somehow he knew he would play a roll in it. He had dreamed of this moment, wanted this moment, and now it had come.

"Oh, somewhere in this favoured land the sun is shining bright,
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light;
And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout,
But there is no joy in kickball-land: our hero flied out to left-field."

On a pitch that was already called a ball by the ump before he took a kick at it.