The Toy Department

The game played between the lines is often ruled by the one between the ears.

Maybe Brooks Conrad, the Atlanta Braves’ second baseman who committed three errors night before last -- the final one a fatal scoot through the pet-door of two legs -- summoned his inner Bill Buckner, allowing the Giants by the bay to score the winning run. Keep the glove on the ground and the butt low, son, then let it hit you in the chest if it bounces up.

We are all doomed in the end, but it’s different being doomed in this sporting life. Conrad, who could have written “Lord Jim,” (which another Conrad did) had to sit and watch the Turner tomahawks fall limp yesterday. His only choice is to vanish to a fishing village in Mexico, if not as a vagabond in the Pacific or a ranch hand on Buckner’s Montana spread. Or to soldier on, and say “Oh well.”

We know how he feels. In our dotage, mistakes loom large. We are continuously amazed by the ability of our brethren homo sapiens to shake it off and move on. See Bill Clinton and Eliot Spitzer, the blue dress and black socks. But those are of a different ilk than Mr. Conrad’s, whose only sin was to fail in something as unimportant as a sporting event – the toy department as we used to call it in the newspaper trade.

When the stage is small, one can slink off to his or her lonely room, fire up a Marlboro and browse through Golf Digest while Turner (he of the tomahawks) Classic Movies plays “The Public Enemy” late at night. One can while away the sleepless hours improving his or her James Cagney or Joan Blondell impersonation.

Falling asleep with the television screen flickering, we dream of a wayback machine in which Mr. Peabody and Sherman intervene in history and set things aright, saving us from ignominy and regrets.

Hold your head high, Mr. Conrad. You’re not going to miss any meals, though you might need to find another profession. Failure on the field of athletic endeavor is the key to victory – for the other side. Those of us on the smaller stage of softball in the park, the municipal tennis court and the local golf course know this and keep our day jobs. Keep ‘em if you got‘em.

The October sun appears ready to grace us with another day in shorts and golf shirts. Got to work on keeping the glove on the ground and the rear end down. Practicing putting is strictly forbidden.