"Oh, thank you," Lasorda says, gazing upward again. Then, slamming his glove on the mound: "These guys are killing me. Peanut hitters who couldn't hit water falling out of a boat are absolutely killing me." He stalks off, mopping his drenched brow with a blue towel, and plops down in the shade of the Dodger dugout. From there, he beams at his young charges. "It's a funny thing," he says, "but I don't want to see this season end." His laughter rebounds off the scats of the empty ballpark. "Now, isn't that amazing?"
It certainly is.