[RebelYell]

For me, it's my first time in Seattle other than a flight stopover. I flew through here once on my way to play summer ball in Alaska. It was raining the last time I was here. Imagine that.

We've got the 11th floor all to ourselves in the hotel and, while there's a little time, I'll go on a short scouting excursion. It's important to check out the surroundings.

I put on a comfortable shirt, sunglasses, the shorts I'll probably end up sleeping in and my trusty topsiders. Saves on the need for socks. Most importantly, I grab the CD carrier and put the headphones on. Won't be gone more than an hour.

She's a rebel; She's a saint
She's the salt of the Earth
And she's dangerous

She's a rebel; Vigilante
Missing link on the brink
Of destruction

From Seattle; To Toronto
She's the one that they call
Old Whatsername

She's the symbol; Of Resistance
And she's holding on my heart
Like a hand grenade

Seattle is a Greenday kind of place for me. As pessimistic as their music is, it makes me feel happy. Young. Ready to take on all that is wrong in the world.
It's the way I approach life: I like to hear about the misery and distaste people have for their situation.

Hell, I like reality television for that very reason. I like watching people compete and, seeing that they're still unhappy with a million bucks dangling in front of them. I know my life must be pretty good.

I move along the streets of Seattle in anonymity, satisfied that my music is all the company I need.

My shadow's the only one that walks beside me
My shallow heart's the only thing that's beating

Scouting out some of the places to eat later, I take a mental note of a couple in particular. The find of the trip, though, is a pool hall that's going to be open until 2 a.m. Don't know if I can make it that late -- That's 5 a.m. back home -- but it's nice to know I've got a place to go if I get restless tonight. There have been many restless spells in my history.

On the way back up the steps to my room, I count. It's what catchers do. We count pitches, count balls and strikes, keep up with the count. It got to be a game when I returned to the dugout at my different stops. The guy charting the pitches would quiz me in the sixth or seventh inning with the starter still in the game.

"Bead, how many pitches do you have for Nicky?"
He's thrown mid-70s. I'd say 74, I reply.

"Damn, I must have missed one. I've got 73. Did he throw seven to their 3-hole last inning?"
Yeah. Seven.
"I had six. A 3-2 walk."
No, he tipped a two-strike curve.

So I count. I notice that there always seems to be an odd number of steps between floors. It's two levels between each floor. Eleven steps up, turn the other way and go 12 steps to the next entrance.

Twenty-three steps up 10 floors ... 230 steps taken, for the most part, two at a time.

Back on our floor -- our home for the next three days -- all is quiet. Some of the players and coaches have gone to get some lunch. Some of the support crew may already be out at the ballpark four or five hours before game time. Especially for the start of a series.

A few of the guys' doors are open. Everybody shares a room except for me. I'm one of those who leaves my door open. It's a college dorm thing. You want visitors, you leave your door open. Door closed, nobody will even knock.

I walk by one of the rooms and glance in. Three of the guys are sitting on their two queen-sized beds and talking to a new friend. I stop and pull my headphones off about the time I hear Greenday singing:

She's an extraordinary girl in an ordinary world

She's very pretty. Long light-colored hair with all those little curls in each strand. She's fairly tan for this early in the season and she sits up straight and tall in her chair.

"Hey Bead, this is ... This is our manager. He's the guy who has us in first place," says one of the players.

I can't hear the name at all. My ears are still ringing from the music.
I nod and look at the young girl -- she's 17 or 18 I'd guess and a red flag is going off in my mind.
I say hello, nod and smile and give the girl one more look after taking a mental note of who is in the room with her. She's wearing a colorful striped V-neck sweater that plunges farther down than I'd like to see my daughter wearing. She smiles at me and, sitting with her legs crossed and facing the players, I see one last distinguising feature before turning away.

She has a tattoo of thorns around her left ankle.