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Parker Price hadn't had a hit in two weeks.

It wouldn't be a big deal if he was playing in a church league in Hoboken, but he was playing for the New York Mets, who had inked a deal to pay him one hundred ten million over seven years, plus bonuses, because they thought he could hit, among other things. And furthermore, it probably wouldn't have been that big of a deal if the Mets had at least won a game in the last two weeks.

They hadn't.

Even worse, with the humiliating end to last night's gameýin which they had been swept by the team nemesis, the New York Yankeesýthey were on a downhill slide, picking up steam for a spectacular crash at rock bottom. And for some reason, all of New York seemed to think it was Parker Price's fault.

Okay, so he'd had a couple bad weeks, but he wasn't the only one swinging at air out there. Their big hitter, bought from the Angels for almost as much as Parker, hadn't been able to hit a damn thing, either. But did they boo him? No. Yell at him to get back on his mule and ride for Texas? Hell no. Just Parker.

Maybe these people just hated Texans in generalýthere had been some press to that effect when the Mets had lured him away from the Houston Astros. And maybe he really just sucked. God knew he was wondering of lateýno one was more surprised than him by the base-running error he'd made last night. No wait, that didn't do it justiceýwhat he'd done last night had to be the most incredibly boneheaded base-running error in the history of the sport.

It was bad enough that he couldn't get out of the parking lot without hot dogs and beer bottles being thrown at his car. It was bad enough that his neighbor, Mrs. Frankel, who had to be ninety if she was a day, was waiting for him at the bottom of the drive when he arrived home. The old bat was standing in his drive, wearing her Mets jacket and Mets hat perched atop of her cotton-ball head, carrying a bat that had the words New York Mets Swing for the Fences! emblazoned down the side.

He knew right then it was trouble.

Parker eased himself out of his Hummer and tried to smile. "Evening, Mrs. Frankel."

"Don't evening me!" she shrieked and came at him with the bat raised, blubbering something about how no one was paying her one hundred million dollars to hit a baseball, but she could damn sure hit a head as swollen as his.

Parker gently but firmly took the bat from her, at which point Mrs. Frankel dissolved into huge crocodile tears and sobbed how much she loved the Mets and just couldn't stand to see what was happening to them.

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"Neither can I, Mrs. Frankel," he sighed, and pointed her in the direction of her house. As she teetered down the drive, he called out, "You're sure you'll be all right, Mrs. Frankel?"

"Don't talk to me!" she screeched then paused and turned partially around to look at him. "May I have my bat? I got that in 1972."

Parker winced and eased the bat around behind his back. "I don't think so, Mrs. Frankel. Think I better hold on to it until you're feeling better."