A tree-filtered flash of lightning finally gave me a snapshot of the scene. I was sitting between two bonfires that were ashen, the rings of which were still warm. So I was naked. Was that encounter with the spirit not a dream, then? Surely it was a whiskey-infused bender that had put me into this peculiar position. It was not the first time I had awoken in a strange place under strange circumstances with still stranger memories. I pulled the silver flask from my overalls, but found it almost completely full. I let out out a laugh. Well, if the drink had not put me in this situation, the drink would surely be necessary to get out of it. I took a long slug, and a second.I have to find her... With surprising lucidity, I found myself rapidly donning my shoes and overalls, not wasting time with the rest of the getup. Then I was hurrying down the path through the woods, until I emerged into that God-forsaken maze again. I grunted in frustration. Hours of tedious walking through what. Playoffs? Yes. American League Championship Series? Yes -- once, three years back. But the World Series? Nope. Not in five years.Maybe this year.I was still being used as a spot reliever. Usually, I would come in to face one batter and then, bye-bye. A couple of times, when we were winning big or losing big, Paul would leave me in for an inning, or even two, but more typically, it was Slay the Left-Handed Monster-Hitter and then go back into my cage.Fortunately, far more often than not, I was getting it done. Paul Warren clearly trusted me to accomplish the limited task I was in there to do. The more frequently I was successful, the greater his trust in me would become.I was pleased, because it meant I was no longer being called upon to pitch only in the laughers -- the games that were hopelessly lost or already safely tucked away. I was getting exposure in tight spots where what I did really mattered. For the first time in my life, I felt like I was becoming a quality big-league.
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