So Caminiti goes on scaring the bejabbers out of pitchers and straphangers alike. No one else works harder at it. That day he rode the subway in New York was typical: rise at 8 a.m. for a lumberjack's breakfast ($35 worth of eggs, pancakes, ham, toast, etc.); ride the train to the park around noon; take early batting practice (he does so almost every day); study videotape; get a cranky back manipulated into place; play 12 innings; bang two home runs; drink two protein shakes; lift weights for 30 minutes.
It was one o'clock in the morning—a little more than 12 hours away from the next game—when Caminiti finally headed to the showers. The rest of the team was on the bus, ready to return to the hotel, when Bochy asked Caminiti if he was coming. "I'll get a taxi," he said.
"No," Bochy said. "You'll come with us. We'll wait for you. You've been carrying us for a while; I think we can carry you."