On this night, the only Mets fans who could wedge their way into Camden Yards for Game Six either had gotten one of the precious few seats allocated to the visiting club for the Series, or they knew somebody very high up in the world of politics, business, or sport.The Pope? Maybe he could land you a seat. The Governor? Possibly. The Governor of Maryland might have been able to get you a sad-sack seat in the upper deck in right, closer to The Warehouse than to home plate.The Governor of New York? Forget about it!The place was full of Oriole fans for Game Six. Probably, many of the folks who'd stuck with us, through all those dismal seasons in fourth place, had experienced their own problems, landing tickets to this game. After all, not everybody is a season-ticket holder, guaranteed a shot at witnessing post-season glory.That's OK. Maybe next year, those fans could follow us up to Yankee Stadium, watch us play a game or two up there. Nice park, Yankee Stadium. Good, solid third-place. Tommy picks it up, sits down and flips through its pages.She remains standing up, says, "It's like ice in here," while a shiver runs through her. Jerry tells her to make herself at home. She looks down at the bed. It is still littered with the debris of his life. She is careful not to sit on anything, perches tentatively at the edge. Her coat remains tightly fastened."When I get the fire lit, it'll soon warm up," Jerry says, attending to the gas fire set in a small, antique metal fire-surround.The fireplaces are like the one in the bedrooms of her terraced house, the ones they never use. She thinks them old-fashioned, and has asked Joe to tear them out. In years to come, they will be coveted period features. Jerry has to twist the side nob of the fire hard to make it ignite. There are four hollow clicks before the flames roar into life. He stands up and turns on a giant lava lamp set on his bedside table. Its light is a hue of amber that sickens the room.She undoes the top button of.
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