With my heart pounding like a jackhammer, I leap onto my hands, and do three awkward cartwheels. I finish with a pathetic attempt at a back-flip. Upon landing, my knees buckle. Soon I'm flat on my back.

Gazing toward the heavens, I hear the crowd erupt in a thunderous ovation. I see a blinding flash. Maybe it's the stadium lights, but I am now struck by a revelation more profound than on the road to Damascus. Stunning in its logic.

I hear the crowd cheering louder than they have all season. Here I am, a common person who never played in a Major League game. Yet I was able to entertain these fans better than all these professionals.

I exposed their fraud in front of 55,000 duped fans. These aren't special people, but for over a century we've idolized these "immortals" by paying a portion of our salaries in a ritualistic tribute to sit in this shrine just to watch them make physical motions. I exposed this charade with a couple slides and a back-flip.

After this revelation, I look at the grassy field. It no longer appears pristine, it's no better than the lawn in my backyard after I run my lawnmower across it. (Of course if I mowed my lawn more than once a year I would've noticed this a lot sooner.) Looking infield, I see the once ornate bases. They now look like someone aligned some pizza boxes into a quartet, the pitcher's mound reminds me of an obtuse anthill I once saw in Kentucky.

Most pathetic of all are the athletes in the dugout. Standing exposed. They're laughing their heads off, but exposed nonetheless.

Soon their hypnotic sway over our society will end. Children will no longer view them as role models. In fact I would make a better role model, I've never been indicted for murder, suspended for choking my coach, or fined for using obscene language, like many athletes. My only weakness is that I might have a slight tendency to over-drink.

Picking myself up a jolting thought paralyzes me. Many great leaders have attempted to expose the conspiracies of powerful establishments. Most are silenced through tragic means, like assassination, imprisonment, or in the case of my uncle, probation along with mandatory attendance at an alcohol clinic. I must escape to herald this new ideology!

Too late! Before I'm upright a dozen police grab me. They rush my stumbling frame toward an exit tunnel. The crowd is furious. They begin to chant, "Let him go, let him go, let him go."

Despite my capture these guardians can't undo my accomplishments, which will spread across country like a tidal wave.

I notice many people in the crowd have figured out they've been duped all these years. I see several parents exiting with their kids, they glare at me with disgusted looks. If I could read their minds I'm sure I'm being thanked for exposing this ruse.

Before I'm shoved into the tunnel, I see a contingent of spectators running towards me in the stands. Gold waves of liquid cascade from circular plastic as they yell encouragements. Nothing can discourage them as they knock over popcorn and peanut vendors, sending concessions exploding like cluster bombs. Before I disappear they wave, and I think I just witnessed the extreme right wing of my movement beginning to form.

The initial euphoria of being an idol fades, as for the next twenty minutes I wilt from being interrogated under a hot lamp. I am isolated in a thick concrete bunker, away from the joyful cheers of my fans.

I feel sick, my eyes start blinking, and my head twitches. At first I think it's the seven beers along with the five shots of vodka I had, but then I dismiss that theory. Instead I believe it's the seven beers, the five shots of vodka, combined with the half bottle of Jack Daniel's Whiskey I had at home this morning.

There is some good news. It seems one of the officers is starting to feel more compassionate towards me. Apparently he's trying to give me the New York Police Department's interpretation of the Heimlich maneuver, which is a couple of hard knees to my ribcage. Writhing in agony I threaten to report him to the mayor if he doesn't use a less painful method. Of course I lose all faith in humanity when my vision clears and I notice that this is the mayor of the city.

My last flicker of hope fades, I'm succumbing to their inquisition. I am about to give in, and reveal my mission's objective to curtail their hold on the people of this city.

But I recall my uncle's stories of our relatives' field-crashing exploits. One of them, in particular, stands above the rest. It gives me the inspiration to fight on.

It's a tale passed down through the centuries about an intoxicated Roman ancestor who charged out onto the field during a gladiatorial contest at the Coliseum. The relative was immediately devoured by a horde of ferocious lions. Of course the bloodthirsty audience felt it was the most thrilling event of the day, even for a matinee, and gave him a ten-minute standing ovation.

In the long term, the lions didn't fare well either. Half died of alcohol poisoning after ingesting the saturated body of our ancestor. The ones that did survive had to have their stomachs pumped, and later became alcoholics.

My uncle insists this is the main reason Christianity survived in Western society since most of the Christians that were thrown to the lions after that time were able to maneuver away from their drunk, uncoordinated attackers and escape through the tunnels where they were released.

In fact, for the past several years my uncle has been lobbying the Vatican to bestow upon this ancestor the status of martyrdom under the name Saint 90 proof. Next week he plans to fly to Rome for the fifth time to push this request through.

This uplifting story endows me with resolve to not speak out. (Well, that and the fact that the mayor has his forearm across my throat.) Unfortunately, refusing to capitulate seals my fate. The article on ESPN proves correct, I am led away in handcuffs, down a cold runway to disgrace.

My head lowers. I stagger with dejection, I see no light where I'm headed. Darkness hovers over white concrete, shadowing a bleak future, once so promising. (I thought they would at least have the decency to refund the five dollars I paid for my parking ticket.)

What transpires in the next seconds can be called a miracle. From behind a concrete column I see the intoxicated fans I encountered before I entered the tunnel. My extremist right wing faction has organized a rescue mission!

The dozen crusaders leap on the three police officers, removing a set of keys, and ending my Promethean torment by unlocking my shackles. They shove me toward the exit tunnel yelling, "Run!"  I run, but my body makes it difficult. My sweat-drenched clothes gravitate downward. My lungs, stretched to capacity, are near their elastic limits.

Soon I see the light at the exit. Like an oil-less tin man I drag my frame across the parking lot. I gasp for air. I'd pay a king's ransom for an oxygen mask, or a liver transplant.

As I fall into my car, I can't help but think of those brave apostles who saved me. No doubt they will be overpowered by the reinforcements I saw approaching. And likely share a fate meant for myself.

After I drive onto the freeway, I call my uncle on my cell-phone to make sure to lobby for some kind of martyr status for my brave followers beside our ancestor when he flies to Rome next week. I just hope this time the Italian authorities will allow him off the plane.

As for myself I have greater responsibilities. I need to plan my next engagement. But where? I do recall purchasing tickets to the NBA Playoffs a week ago. And the last time I was at Madison Square Garden that parquet floor looked pretty inviting.

By the way, the Yankees won the game, 7-3.

Copyright © Kurt Kitasaki 2003