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	Mike Piazza  V.J. Lovero

I'd begin my day early, with breakfast at Belmont beneath a clear summer sky. I'd amble around the paddock, sniff the hay and get to know a horse or two. Then I'd put eight bucks on the one with the best name, and he'd win.

I'd spend the late morning on a serious hike with a funny person. We'd hike hard up into the foothills of the Andes and we'd finally come to a cool pond where we'd go for a good long swim.

In the afternoon I'd read something about baseball by Wilfrid Sheed, and I'd listen to Vin Scully call a day game from Dodger Stadium.

At night I'd be at Shea for the World Series clincher. The stadium loudspeaker would be broken. No cacophony of music and promotions to deal with, just the undulating cheers of 55,000 fans. It would be a close game and the Mets would be trailing for most of it. Then, under some highly improbable circumstances in the ninth or in extra innings, the Mets would rally and win.

After that, a posse of us would head over to some nice, well-kept lanes in Middle America and bowl a few games. I'd break 250. Twice.

We'd cross-country ski back home, over open, moonlit trails in Vermont. Once inside I'd make a cup of cocoa, or a snifter of something stronger, and put Slap Shot into the VCR. And when it was over, I'd go to sleep.