I walk along the concourse past the first-base concession stand, out from beneath the cover of the suite level and party deck. Into the cool night I stroll, anxious to get to the party, but knowing I have plenty of time to make it. A live version of "Why Don't We Get Drunk" comes from the stadium speakers and I can hear the faint sounds of voices coming from the tiki bar beyond the right-center field fence. The tiny flickering of tiki torches surrounds the patio near the bar.

As I make my way along the sidewalk above the grassy hill of the right-field general admission seating area, the voices grow louder and I can see the outlines of people seated at the tables, the inflatable wading pool, a remnant of the night's promotion � Beach Party Night � in the center of it all. As I enter the patio area, looking at the faces illuminated by the torches, I look for a seat, I look for one of several faces I know well, one near a spot where I can join the party and not sit or stand on the outside of the conversation.

As I pass the bar, a voice from inside the dark hut asks if I want a drink. "Zima or Killean's on tap?" and I take the beer. I sit down at a table to "Hey, Dans" and "What's ups" from the team staffers, most past their first drinks as I join them after filing my game story to the paper. We're all dressed in colorful tropical shirts, bright shades of red and yellow and turquoise, flower prints and sunset designs on our backs. Erin, Keri, Megan, Denise and the other women wear flowers in their hair and we try to remember what significance goes with the placement of the blossom � one position (on the right?) for available and looking; one (on the left � back?) for taken; another (on the left � front?) for taken but looking; and (the one I remember from my trip to Hawaii) the one in the back center for Don't ask questions, just follow me.

The tables are made of a hard plastic, designed as patio tables � with a kind of chain-link design, holes in the tabletop is the best way to describe it. And so as I reach for my beer, having set it down on the table, I slide it a little before lifting it, tilting it and spilling onto my sneakers before I've even had a sip.

I sit at the table talking with Hal and Keri and Megan. I stand near the bar chatting with Erin and Paul. I meander back to another table and tell Notre Dame stories to Kennon, Zak and Michael. Later, Keri walks around wearing someone's orange-tinted sunglasses, and as I'm about to ask her how life looks through orange-colored glasses, she comes up to me, looks me over, and says, "These are x-ray glasses, you know."

I pause a moment before replying, "Well, then it must be a good sign that you're still looking at me."

Keri takes off the glasses and smiles, "That's the best line anyone's given me so far."

Talking more with people, Mike describes how he proposed to his wife, a night earlier than planned because all her friends were drunk and a threat to spill the secret, and laughs at how AP butchered a story of mine and put it out on the wire, completely twisting Mike's quotes around to say something completely different.

Sometime after 1 a.m., I grow tired and decide I've had enough. Although the party's dwindled from maybe 30 people down to a dozen or so, I'm ready to head home. I walk back to the office with Hal, pick up my computer, and head out to the car.

For fun, I floor it down the long straight road leading out of the parking lot, getting the RPMs up to 6,000 and my speed to 60 mph in a matter of meters, before braking (and squealing the tires, I think) for the turn out of the lot. My drive home seems long, for all I want is to pull into the driveway and go inside, maybe to come online or just crash into bed.

I climb the stairs and plug in my laptop, dialing into the ISP and starting up Netscape, seeing no one on my AOL buddy list. I go brush my teeth and remember a light is still on downstairs, so I go to shut it off and see the blinking red light of a new message on the answering machine. In a short, quiet message left not 15 minutes earlier, she sounds upset, near tears, and I grab the phone and walk back up to shut down my computer. It's 2 a.m., and three hours later, she's laughing, as am I, and as the first light of day slides through the blinds and the birds begin their morning songs, I put the phone down and roll over to fall fast asleep, dreaming dreams I don't remember now except for the warm, happy sense of what must have been pleasant ones. And my eternal good mood continues.