63rd Plate Appearance

The injury to Little Zimmy hangs heavy over the clubhouse. Manager Jim Riggleman has spent the intervening night crying and tearing at his hair. Adam came to the clubhouse at 6:30 this morning (his usual arrival time) to find Riggleman slumped in the locker-room corner, weakly gnashing his teeth and beating his breast.

Adam has lifted the man to his duty, but still the lineup card Riggleman has handed to HPU Paul Edmonds is a patchy and torn fig leaf for the utter nakedness that Zimmy's absence has caused. Alberto Gonzalez is at third; Ian Desmond is at short; and loyal Cris Cringle, Zimmy's best friend in the middle infield, has been sent away to right field.

Amongst this sorry scene, Adam comes to fight. It is the bottom of the first. On the mound is the freshest initiate to the no-hit-Immortals, Ubaldo Jimenez.

The first speedy stinky goes far outside. Adam read it and forgot about it as soon as it left Ubaldo's hand. That's how sharp his eye is today.

Some breaking balls come Adam's way, and then a pair of heaters--one that even the staid Nationals Park radar gun must admit cracked three digits--batter Thunderhammerbat into splinters.

The pain of this added loss clouds Adam's clear eyes. Another THB is forthcoming, but some things are irreplaceable. Before he can blink away the resurgent memory of Zimmy's stretched hamstring, he sees another heater coming. Sees it imperfectly. The swing, at least, is beautiful.