Detroit Free Press

ATLANTA -- The plane sat on the tarmac, stuck in limbo, and the man who would have to save the World Series for the New York Yankees sat inside it, feeling the beads of sweat starting to form."How long?" he wanted to know.Maybe a half-hour, he was told. Maybe hours. No way to tell. Computer problem."Computer problem?" he thought.He envisioned every travel nightmare you can think of. Flight gets canceled. Back-up flight gets canceled. He spends the rest of night wandering around an airport . . ."Wait a minute."

CLEVELAND -- It was almost 50 years ago and the World Series was a thing that was played during the day, under the sun, as baseball should be. Irving (Sonny) Dwosh, now a retired carpet layer, was just a few years out of school. On game days, he and his father went to Peterson Nut Company and picked up 25 pounds of peanuts. Sonny carried one bag, his father carried the other. They set up on Third Street, near the bridge that straddles the freeway."Good spot," his father said. "People have to walk past to get to the game."

The lights flashed on, but she had not flicked the switch. The TV changed channels, but she had not touched the remote. There was a voice on her phone that interrupted her conversations with burps, curses, and laughter -- but there was no one in her house on the other extension.The modern-day version of a haunting was happening to Debbie Tamai and her Windsor family. Only this phantom was not some long-buried soul, but a very real, very alive, very conniving punk who calls himself "Sommy" and who thinks it's cute to terrorize a family.

Having not seen Grant Hill in a few months, I go to Pistons practice with a twinge of concern. Off-seasons, I believe, are when egos take root. Players go home to friends and family. They hang out in clubs and parties. They hear the sycophants saying, "Man, you should be making more money . . ." or "How come you're not bigger than such-and-such? He doesn't have half your talent . . ."They come back with an attitude. A chip on their shoulders. During the season, there is barely time for playing, sleeping, and catching the next plane; it's the off-seasons when monsters are hatched.

BALTIMORE -- He arrived for his last game hours before the first pitch, early Sunday morning, as the fog was breaking up and most people were still in church. He removed his clothes in stages, hanging up his gray sports coat, followed by the tie and the shoes. He pulled his baseball shirt over his dark slacks and socks, and he sat down that way, half-man, half- manager, munching a doughnut and holding the omnipresent cup of black coffee, part of the reason his hands now tremble like a nervous safecracker. The other reason is that he is 61 years old.

GOOD MORNING, class. The question today is simple: Which of the following is the greatest mystery of all?A) The riddle of the Sphinx.B) Stonehenge.C) Charlie Batch's thumb.The answer is C, Charlie Batch's thumb. Not because it is as complex as the Sphinx or Stonehenge. In fact, Charlie's thumb is pretty simple. It's attached to his hand, like the rest of our thumbs. He can stick it out if he wants to hitchhike. He can wiggle it, bend it, he can jam it in his nose.