My arm is really sore. Actually, it's my shoulder. My right shoulder, the one I throw with. I guess it's a good thing I'm not a pitcher. What time is it? Jesus, I never wake up this early. Oh, well, I guess that's to be expected. Might as well get up.

I pushed myself up and sat on the side of the hotel bed. The room was dark. Usually when I get up, even for a day game, it's already light outside.

I felt sad. I'd wondered how I would feel about this day. Some guys say they feel relieved, maybe even glad. Right now, I just feel sad. And sore. Jesus, my shoulder hurts.

Of course, there's nothing new about that. My shoulder has been hurting for years. The trainer keeps telling me I could have an operation that should make it feel better, but there would be a long period of recovery, something like eight or nine months of physical therapy, time I wouldn't be able to play, and I didn't want that.

In the shower, I turned the water up as hot as I could take it, and just let it course down over my sore shoulder. It helped. But when I washed my hair (what little I had left), it hurt to raise my arm.

After getting dressed and packing my bags, I sat on the bed for a while, just thinking. It was still dark outside. That feeling in my stomach, is it hunger or nervousness? Maybe it's excitement. I am looking forward to playing today. One more chance to put on the uniform and trot out into the sun. Swing the bat and throw the ball and hopefully get to run the bases. God, I love this game.

The hotel coffee shop was practically empty. I was hoping it was early enough that I wouldn't see anybody from the team, but Pinky was there. He smiled and waved me over. I really wanted to be alone, but you couldn't say no to Pinky.

He was our first base coach. Almost sixty years old. Bald as a baby. He growled at me in his gravelly, potentially cancerous voice, "Couldn't sleep, huh?"

I mumbled an affirmative.

"Yeah, I know the feeling," he said. Pinky was drinking black coffee and chain-smoking unfiltered cigarettes. I ordered an orange juice. We sat in silence for a long time, which is something I really appreciated about Pinky. He never felt the need to fill empty space with conversation, and when he talked, it usually meant something.

"Game's tough," he finally ventured, "wears you down." Another long period of silence. Pinky stubbed out one cigarette, lit another. I decided to order breakfast. Eggs, hash browns, english muffin.

"Grabs hold of you, though. Hard to walk away from."

Why did he have to say that? How could he know exactly what I was feeling? And the way he said it put a lump in my throat, which makes it difficult to eat. I pushed the food around on my plate and chewed slowly. Pinky coughed, phlegm rattling in his lungs. Finally, he got up and slapped me on the back. "See you at the park," he said.

"Okay, Pinky," I answered. Halfway through my breakfast, I pushed my plate away, left enough cash on the counter to cover my bill and a generous tip, and left.

It had been a disappointing season. We were expected to contend, but injuries, bad luck, and a hot start by one of our rivals left us out of the race by the All-Star break. I'd had a decent year for an old guy. There weren't that many still playing at 39. Only hit .257, but I had 17 homers and 66 ribbies in just a little over 400 at-bats. Good enough that the team wanted to exercise their option and bring me back for another year. The money was tempting, but it was time to quit. I hurt too much and I didn't want to play until I was an embarrassment. I didn't want to fall flat on my face and get released mid-season. That's not the way to go out.

Today's game didn't mean shit. We were in fourth place, out of the race for months, and the other team was last in their division. But the game still had to be played and I was in the lineup, thank God.

Before the game, a lot of guys like to load up with chewing tobacco or bubble gum or even sunflower seeds. I never did chew tobacco, never even tried it once. Seems pretty disgusting to me. When I was in the minors, I used to chew gum a lot, but then it started to make my jaw sore. The older you get, the more things hurt. And I never liked sunflower seeds very much either. I sat in the dugout as the lineups were being announced for the last game of the season and watched all these guys attending to their oral fixations. What an odd game this is.

When you bat fifth, you don't always get up in the first inning, but today I did. Two out, runners at the corners. Young kid on the mound, just called up a few weeks ago. Never faced him before.

Walked up to the plate, spit on my hands, rubbed them with dirt. I'm not the type to use batting gloves.

Took a called strike. Pretty good fastball, but if he throws me another one, I'll get around on it. I'm not that old.

Changeup, outside. Ball one. Stepped out, looked at the third base coach again. He runs through the signs, but they don't mean anything. Just swing away.

Come on, kid, bring me that fastball. Here it is, in the zone, big cut -- damn! Fouled it off.

Step out. Spit again. Rub some more dirt on the hands, then rub the side of my pants. Nice hot sun for early October. Already breaking a sweat. Gonna be a good day.

Back in the box, pitcher's in the set. Looks to first, steps off the rubber. Come on, rook, throw the damn ball.

Finally, he's ready. Here it comes, in the zone, make it count, swing -- shit! He threw me a curve and I was ahead of it. Caught it off the end of the bat. Weak grounder to second. Okay, run hard, maybe he'll boot it. Nope, out at first, inning over. Oh, well.

Pinky patted me on the butt and said, "That' s okay, you'll get him next time." One of the bat boys handed me my first baseman's mitt and a practice ball. I gave him my batting helmet.

When I came up to the show, I was a third baseman. Played there for ten years. But my arm went bad and they shifted me to first. If I was in the other league, I'd probably be a DH by now. No thanks.

They scored a run in the first and two in the second. When I led off the top of the third, we were trailing three to nothing. The first pitch was a fastball inside, knocked me down. That's okay, I've been dusted off by better pitchers than you, kid. I glared out at the mound, then stepped back into the box, crowding the plate a little more this time, determined to show him I wouldn't be intimidated. I fouled off the next pitch, a fastball on the outside corner, might have been out of the strike zone. Then he came inside again, this time with a curveball. It broke sharp, Jesus, right down at my feet! I tried to dance out of the way, but the damn thing skipped up and hit me on the shin. God, that hurts!

I managed to stay on my feet grimacing and glowering out toward the mound, but when the trainer came out to check on me, I waved him back to the dugout and trotted down to first. I heard the pitcher calling to me, saying he didn't mean to hit me, but I ignored him. If he's feeling guilty, that might be an advantage my next time up.

Their first baseman was a veteran like me, only not as old. He asked if I was going to play next year. "Nah," I answered, "its time for me to quit."

"I don't blame you," he said, as I studied the signs from the third base coach. "If I was as old and as slow as you, I'd quit too."

"Fuck you," I explained, smiling, as I took my lead. I wanted to steal, wanted to show I still had some speed, wanted to show these young guys I could still play, but of course, I didn't get the steal sign or the hit and run. I'd only had three stolen bases all year, and two of them were on the back half of a double steal. I was no speed threat.

When I was younger, I could run a little. Once stole 19 bases in a single season. Really wanted to get 20. But I got caught 13 times that year. Too eager.

Whoa! Get back! Almost fell asleep out there. Kid pitcher threw to first and nearly picked me off. I didn't even have a very big lead and he almost got me. Gotta keep my head in the game.

With two strikes on the hitter, the kid threw to first again. I was more alert and dove back to the bag in time, but the throw was bad. It caught me on the hip and rolled down the right field line. The first baseman cursed and ran off, chasing the ball. I jumped up and headed for second, making it easily. Now my shoulder hurt, my shin hurt, and my hip hurt. But I was in scoring position with nobody out. It was a chance for us to get back in the game.

The pitcher was starting to look a little rattled, I figured I'd try to get a good lead off second, maybe make him think about me and take his concentration off the hitter. I moved away from the base, wishing he'd look back at me.

Jamison, the guy who followed me in the lineup, was a young stud who was going to have a great career if he could only control his emotions. He had all the tools, but one day he was up and the next day he was down. Now, with two strikes, I hoped he would shorten his swing and just try to make contact. If I could get to third with only one out, we'd have a good chance to score.

The pitcher glanced briefly at me, then fired to the plate. A fastball, high and tight, very tight. Jamison went sprawling into the dirt, his helmet spinning away. Then -- Oh God! -- he jumped up and ran toward the mound!

For a moment, I stood there, telling myself this wasn't happening. Not on the final day of the season in a meaningless game. Not in the last game of my career. It was happening, though. Jamison looked pissed and he was gonna kill that pitcher if someone didn't stop him. The benches were emptying, but since I was the closest one to the mound, I charged in to try to keep them from hurting each other.

Being in the middle of a baseball brawl, if it's a bad one, is like playing rugby without any rules. You push and shove, you get scratched and kicked, everybody yells, sometimes you get punched. When you're young and full of hormones, it can be fun, but at my age, I didn't want any part of it. Too bad that didn't occur to me before I was stuck in the middle. I came out of it okay, though. Got smacked pretty hard in the cheek with an elbow, but that was the worst of it.

After a few minutes of mayhem, order was restored. Both Jamison and the kid pitcher were ejected, as well as the other team's manager. Then we all had to wait for a new pitcher to warm up, and finally it was time to play ball again. A pinch hitter for Jamison stepped in with the count one and two and took three straight balls. Now we had runners on first and second with nobody out. Rally time!

Unfortunately, our next three hitters couldn't do anything with this new pitcher. Popup, strikeout, strikeout. Damn.

I had nothing but routine plays at first base all day long. It would have been nice to make a special play in my last game, but it didn't happen. When I played third and I was young, I was known as a pretty good glove man. And even though I'm not a bad hitter, I always got the most satisfaction playing defense. It's such a thrill to lunge for a hard-hit ball, feel it smack into your glove, and then gun a long throw across the diamond, just nipping the batter at first. Can't do it any more, though. Damn shoulder.

I came up to bat in the sixth with one out and nobody on. We were still behind, three to nothing. The new pitcher, the guy who came in after the fight, threw a lot of junk. He'd been around for seven or eight years, changed teams a couple of times, used mostly in middle relief. I had always hit him well.

He started me off with a couple of breaking balls down and away. I knew enough not to chase them. I took the next pitch, a changeup on the inside corner, for strike one. Then he missed with another curve and I was ahead in the count, three and one. Hitter's pitch, coming up.

I was looking fastball and that's what he gave me. I got my arms extended and drove it deep to right center. It was a gapper. Pounding down toward first, I saw the ball dropping. It wasn't going to clear the wall. As I rounded the bag, the ball hit at the base of the wall and caromed away from the fielders. Adrenaline surged through me and I ran as fast as I could, thinking I had a chance for a triple. Just before I touched second, I glanced over at the third base coach. He was waving me on. I dug my spikes into the dirt and ran toward third. Watching the third baseman's eyes, I could tell the throw was coming in from the cutoff man and it would be close. The coach was motioning for me to slide, but I didn't need to be told. I dove head first, hitting the dirt hard, eating dust, feeling the canvas base scrape beneath my hands and then bang against my chest. The ball arrived just after I did and the third baseman slapped a tag onto my sore hip, but it was too late. I was safe at third.

I stood up, asked the ump for time out, and dusted myself off. The third base coach patted me on the butt and congratulated me. I could hear the guys in our dugout razzing me, asking if I needed oxygen. I tried to be stoic, but I couldn't help myself. I broke into a broad grin as I resumed my position on the bag.

My last day in baseball. I'd played the game professionally for almost twenty years, and now my career was coming to an end. I'm glad I hit a triple. Only my second one all year. God, that feels good. My legs hurt and my lungs ached from running so hard and I was sore all over, but I felt great. A triple.

Got stranded at third, though. Second time in the game I'd been left in scoring position. That was the story of our season.

When I came to bat in the eighth inning, there were runners on first and second with nobody out. We were down six to nothing. This was not a situation where I just wanted the hit the ball to the right side and move the runners over. We needed some runs, a lot of runs. I wanted to drive these guys in. We had already left eight men on base. It was time to make something happen.

They had a new pitcher in, another young kid just up from the minors. He was big, but he didn't throw all that hard. Before I came up to the plate, the catcher went out to the mound. They were talking about how to pitch me. I knew they would try to stay away with breaking balls to see if they could get me to hit into a double play. We'll see.

I looked down at the third base coach. He went through the signs. Called for a sacrifice bunt. Very funny. Just because it's an unimportant game on the last day of the season and probably the last at bat of my career, the guy thinks he can make a joke. I looked down at the ground and shook my head, smiling. Then I looked at the coach again. New sign. Swing away. That's more like it.

The first pitch was a fastball on the inside part of the plate. He was trying to get ahead of me in the count. I jumped on it and just missed. Fouled it straight back to the screen. Damn.

They threw me two breaking balls away, just like I thought. Now the count is two and one. Then he tried to sneak another fastball by me on the inside corner. I turned on it and got my hands out in front. Got the big part of the bat on it. Good wood. The sweet spot. It was the kind of swing where you hit the ball so hard it doesn't even feel like you've hit anything. There was a sharp crack and the ball jumped off the bat. A screaming liner, headed for the left field corner.

Unfortunately, the third baseman was guarding the line and it went right into his glove. Out number one for the pitcher. Last out for me.

When I got back to the bench, the manager came over and sat down beside me. "Tough out," he said. "You hit it good."

"Yeah, I did, but it's still an out."

"Listen," said the manager, his voice low, "if you want to call it a day, it's okay with me. I'll put somebody else in at first. You can go take a shower. But it's up to you. You want to stay in, I got no problem with that."

I looked at him. It was a nice offer. But did I really want to leave my last game early? I looked down at the dugout floor, thinking about it.

"It's up to you," he said again, patting my back. "You let me know." He got up and walked back to the end of the dugout.

What would people think if I took myself out? Could I still do something to help us win this game?

I looked up at the action on the field. The guy following me walked. Bases loaded now, only one out. I looked at the guys on the bench with me. Every one of them was younger than me, all except for the coaches. Most of the players were in their twenties. They didn't have sore shoulders that had to be soaked under hot water every morning. They didn't gasp for air after hitting a triple. I looked down again, shaking my head.

Why should I care what anyone thinks? I stood up and walked to the end of the dugout, toward the runway to the clubhouse.

"Hey, skip," I said, and the manager turned to look at me. "Thanks."

He winked and I walked down the runway for the last time.

THE END