NOTE: This is Section C of God knows how many installments in the account of my trip. To start at the beginning, go here.

The wind whips into the car through the open sunroof, though the rest of the windows are closed and the air conditioning is on. The warm air hits my face as I slouch in the back of Jim's BMW 540i. We're speeding up and over the western Pennsylvania hills. When cars in front of us are going too slow, he waits � barely � for the broken yellow line and a straight-away, then jerks the car into the oncoming lane, shoots by the slowpokes, and glides back into the right lane, maintaining his accelerated speed of 80 mph. Just like Dean Moriarty. When another slow car � doing only 70 � gets in our way, it begins again. I can't help but get the feeling that he's doing it to impress me. Carol, in the front seat, says nothing, and I figure this is a common practice. Casey, next to me in the seat behind her dad, is also quiet, but reveals later, "When it's Dave doing that, I feel safe, because I know he's in control. With my dad, not so much."

The speed doesn't bother me as much. The heat bothers me more � though at first I was fine with the fresh air � and I become more comfortable when Casey asks him to close the roof and the car cools off a bit. I lean forward, peeling my shirt from the leather seat, and watch the countryside fly by in a green blur.

Once in Pittsburgh, we head straight for the Strip District � a name referring to the flat strip of land along the Allegheny River on which the section's stores and warehouses sit, and not to the tendency for people there to disrobe, because they don't. We're here for dinner, for Primanti Brothers sammiches. I leave the coleslaw off my ham and cheese because I hate the stuff, but damn the meal's still good. Something about the melted cheese over the warm ham with the fries already piled on the sandwich tasted excruciatingly good on this night.

After dinner, Jim drives around to find parking and we walk across the Roberto Clemente Bridge to PNC Park. (Just before crossing the river, though, we duck into a nearby four-star hotel just to peek at the lobby. "My dad has a thing for nice hotel lobbies," Casey says. "He always makes us look at them.") With the bridge closed to vehicular traffic, the avenues around the ballpark have a street fair atmosphere to them. Jim buys peanuts on the bridge and then takes off in a power walk to find the will call window. I consider suggesting that it will be along the third-base side of the field (which could be the north side, but I can't get my bearings in this city), because I have a feeling that's where it is, and such feelings are generally pretty accurate. He asks one of the ticket takers at the nearest gate and we're pointed in that direction. Jim winds his way through the crowd, a sort of slalom in and out of people walking and standing, kids running and wandering. We move around a statue of Willie Stargell in his batting stance and I tilt my head so as not to run into his gigantic bronze ass sticking out. Jim is forging on ahead and I do my best to keep an eye on his route while taking glances backward to check up on Casey and Carol. I know they�re used to this, and they�re muttering to themselves � or even each other � �There he goes again.� But it�s in my nature to know where everyone is.

Of course, at will call, the A-C line is the longest there is, something I�ve become used to, as has Casey�s family. Jim takes a shot and goes over to the lonely agent in the D-F window and we�re set. Casey and Carol follow me over to the right side of the line, near a gate, which I also know is a gate rather close to our seats, since Jim had already stated they were located behind the third-base dugout and I had seen the layout of the field from the bridge (and had noticed it on TV too, with the bridge the centerpiece of the backdrop). But Jim takes off again, retracing our steps to enter the ballpark back at the left-field gate, so that inside, we walk all the way down the left-field line to our seats.

We sit for about two seconds, or slightly longer than it took to count all the reasons I would want to see Nicholas Cage in Windtalkers, before Jim takes a beer tally (four yeas), and heads back up the aisle but not before saying to me, �You�d better come with me.� I figured they�d give him a box to carry the four cups back, but it turns out to be a good idea to bring a beer caddie along. We walk all the way around to the first-base side before we find a vendor hawking I.C. Lite � that�s Iron City Lite for the un-Picksburgized. It�s an acquired taste, though I acquired it quite quickly. It�s to Pittsburgh what Old Style is to Chicago, what ... what other local brews are to other cities, none of which I can think of right now. Jim buys all night. I think Casey and Carol each have two; Jim and I drink four apiece. Or maybe it was three for the ladies and four for us. In any case, later in the game, Jim will head off to the men�s room, then return with a beer for himself and one for me, without even asking.

Yeah, the guy likes me.

The chance to see a game at new PNC Park � Pink Park, Casey calls it � excites me for a couple of reasons. First, it�s No. 17 on my Tour of Major League Ballparks (No. 14 if you�re only counting current, active parks in which I�ve seen baseball. The shorter list excludes dormant Tiger Stadium in Detroit; Baltimore�s former Memorial Stadium; and Toronto�s SkyDome, in which I accidentally saw a Raptors preseason game in October 1996. Add in minor-league parks, and I�m pushing 30.) Second, the Pirates are playing the Astros, one of only two major league teams I�ve never seen play, anywhere. The other is the Florida Marlins, until I went to Shea Stadium on Tuesday to see them play the Mets.

Kris Benson is pitching for the Pirates, and he soon gets two strikes on an Astros batter. Three seats to my right � I�m sitting closest to the aisle in our group � sits a pot-bellied, scruffy-haired, bearded Bucs fan in an old, torn No. 44 jersey, a glove on his left hand and a hat on his head. As if synchronized with the scoreboard as it posts a 2 next to �strikes,� the guy in the torn Pirates jersey starts yelling, �OK, Kris! It�s time for the Dipsy-Doodle! Give him that ol� Dipsy-Doodle!� Then, in a rhythmic cadence, �Throw that Dipsy-Doodle and strike him right out!� When Benson comes through, the fan jumps to his feet screaming, �There it is! THE OL� DIPSY-DOODLE!� and proceeds to twist his left arm in a snake-like motion through the air, his fingers straight and his thumb pressed against his palm, the movement demonstrating the likely path of the Dipsy-Doodle pitch as it baffled the batter. It reminds me of Bugs Bunny�s meandering pitch in the cartoons.

He never misses an opportunity. Throughout the game, whenever Benson or another Pirates pitcher gets to two strikes on a batter, the fan on the end goes into his chant. Soon, we�re paying as much attention to him as we are to the game, and we christen him Dipsy Doodle.

Later, when the Astros get a runner on first base with less than two outs, Dipsy Doodle offers a new one: �Alright! It�s time for the Hoover-Doover! Throw that Hoover-Doover! Hoover him right up!� This is a guy right out of the 50s, when silly names and terms were used for big-breaking curve balls and infielders who could suck up anything that came near them � just like a Hoover vacuum cleaner. Dipsy Doodle wanted the ol� double-play ball, and was calling for Benson to get a ground ball to the infield, something to induce a double play.

A Pirates error on what should have been the third out somewhere around the third inning allows one Houston run to score, and then Lance Berkman crushes a two-run home run onto the sidewalk beyond the right-center field wall. The ball takes one high bounce off the concrete and lands in the Allegheny River (At least I think it�s the Allegheny. I�ll have to check. There are three of them, after all.) 3-0 Houston. The guy next to me with the Texas accent and an Astros hat is happy now. Earlier, he�d muttered, �I may have to move soon,� after Dipsy Doodle started getting into the game.

Dipsy Doodle remains as enthusiastic in the eighth inning as he was in the first. Soon the entire section is yelling for Dipsy-Doodles and Hoover-Doovers. Two young sisters a few rows in front wait for a quiet moment and yell together, �THROW THE DIPSY-DOODLE!� then turn to see if he noticed. With the exception of politely standing up or moving his legs out of the way any time one of us leaves for a restroom or a drink, Dipsy Doodle seems oblivious to everything around him. During one inning break, the production room plays some danceable song from the 70s and cameramen look for fans boogying in the stands. Dipsy Doodle gets up out of his seat, takes three steps down to where the vertical aisle intersects with a horizontal walkway, and just starts dancing, really dancing � eyes closed, body moving in herky-jerky ways, feet tapping. Soon, a camera finds him and he�s up on the JumboTron, and he stays there throughout the song. Fans in the background behind him alternate with watching the live show and turning to check him � and themselves � out on the screen. I see myself briefly because I�m on the edge, and I catch a glimpse of Casey because she�s blocked by Dancing Dipsy Doodle. Jim and Carol get a little more screen time, but for the most part, nobody tries to get in on Dipsy�s few minutes of PNC Park fame. There are no idiots in the background standing and waving.

Dipsy Doodle dances through the end of the song, never showing any indication he knows he�s dancing for the entire ballpark, for 30,000 fans. When the song ends, our section and those near who saw the display up close begin clapping. And most of us stand, giving ol� Dipsy Doodle a well-deserved ovation.

Back on the field, the Pirates fight back, and a home run by struggling third baseman Aramis Ramirez breaks the 3-3 tie and Mike Williams closes out the game for the Buccos.

Afterwards, we file out and back around to the street (it has a name, but Casey knows what it is) beyond left field. We have one more glance of Willie Stargell and his Gigantic Ass before following the throng over the Clemente Bridge and back to downtown. We stop again in the elaborate hotel lobby so Jim and Carol can use the restrooms, and then we�re back in the car. Jim asks if we want to go up the cliff to see the city, and Casey doesn�t care, figuring, I think, that it doesn�t matter what she says, he�s going to do it anyway. So we drive up and, unable to find a parking space, he lets us off near the inclined plane so we can gaze down at the lights of Pittsburgh. It is a pretty sight, and had I not finished one roll of film and not yet inserted another, I�d have taken a few pictures. We stand above the confluence of the three rivers � the Monongahela, Allegheny and Ohio � with Heinz Field and PNC Park almost directly below us. Walking back to the car, we see Jim and Carol walking towards us, having found a parking space, but we�re tired and not interested in a beer at the bar nearby.

So as Jim flies home along the Turnpike and then the backroads from Greensburg to Johnstown, Casey and I doze off in the backseat. At one point, I look up at the sky out my window and notice for the first time in a long time a brilliant firmament unobstructed by the lights of suburbia and New York City. There are so many stars, it�s amazing people in ancient times could look at the jumble of lights and see constellations back in a time when nightfall meant complete darkness, with the exception of small fires and candles and lanterns.

I lean my head back onto the shelf behind the back seat and look up through the window at the night sky above us.