"Smokey Joe Dawkins, they called me, in Little League" said Joseph, feeling the full brunt of his amber liquid. "Somebody clocked my fast ball at seventy-nine."

"As it sailed over the backstop," wife Ginger giggled, as only a wife can do.

"Smokey Joe Wood was from Ouray," Fred said, changing the subject as Joseph scowled at his wife. "He lived right here in town as a boy. They say it's where he learned his baseball."

"Hell of a pitcher," Paul Dawkins mumbled. "Best the Red Sox ever had."

Brandon Westlake nodded. "The best anyone ever had. Ol' Woodie was the greatest pitcher ever. I've got an autographed ball of his. Had to really bid it up on the Internet to get it. Dates back to 1912 when Woodie won sixteen games in a row. Beat Walter

Johnson in a showdown, one to nothing."

Cynthia looked from one to the other in stark amazement.

"He could hit the ball, too," Fred added. "Not like today's pitchers."

"But what about the Smokey Joe Jones and all the other Smokey Joes of world who never made it?" Cynthia asked in exasperation. "Who put bread on their family's table? Who cares where they're from?" No one answered. "Everyone is from somewhere," she continued "The important thing is to be someone when you're there. Nowadays, that takes an education."

But here was twenty-year-old Randy Byrne, at the threshold of life, batting .362 with seventeen home runs, a slew of RBI's, and a glove that could stop a freight train, being offered the world! And this woman wanted him to kiss it off, to stay in a classroom? God, was she preaching to the wrong congregation! Women just didn't get it.

But they were polite, to a man. They sat there and pretended to agree, or at least consider the alternatives and ramifications as presented. Certainly, she had a point. It was just a silly game- unless of course, you'd played it like Randy Byrne.

"What do you do at age thirty, or, if you're lucky, forty?" Cynthia continued. "Pump gas and sign baseball cards?"

Like that's all bad? they collectively thought, but only Paul Dawkins had the guts to so respond, spurred on by the rapidly disappearing cognac.

"Ask any man where he'd rather have his face-the cover of Time Magazine or a baseball card?" he said.

"It's a guy thing," Hank from the Midwest offered. "Like hardware stores and old cars." Even Pumpkin Green, the trekking philosopher, tossed in his two cents. "Sure, we can be practical and deep down we know it's all smoke but-God, it's fun to dream! If you've got a lick of real ability-even a chance-shit, you'd be stupid not to grab it!"




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