I CALL AN OLD FRIEND of mine, legendary Red Sox pitcher Bill "Spaceman" Lee, while listening to the game on the radio as my limo stops for red lights, traffic cops, old ladies in wheelchairs—any excuse to use the brakes. It's the top of the fourth. Not only has Tim been overpowering on the mound; he just singled up the middle: Braves 3, Giants 0.

"Wind's blowing out, but still I think Bonds is screwed," Bill says from his Vermont farm. "Hudson's got a great sinker tonight, and he's gutsy." Earlier, I asked Bill to advise me, inning by inning, where to position my kayak when Bonds comes to the plate. Though frequently caricatured as a left-leaning pot legalizer, Spaceman is a brilliant, tireless student of philosophy, weather, and spinning round objects.

"But where should I be?" I ask.

"In center field, drinking beer," he suggests. "But if you're wearing a wetsuit, don't go anywhere near the acidheads. They'll think a giant frog is swallowing a bald guy."

Not helpful. Nor was the phone message I received today from Gene Lamont, third-base coach for Detroit and American League manager of the year with the White Sox in 1993: "Randy, it's Geno. I doubt if Bonds will go long, but if he does, just hope the ball doesn't hit you in the hands. Someone could get hurt when you drop it."

Funny.

Secretly, though, I suspect Gene's right. Tim's classy and laid-back off the field, but he's pure Alabama hardass on the mound. "I don't nibble around the outside corner, and Barry knows it," he told me yesterday. "I go right at him with fastballs—sinkers and cutters."

Later, he'll tell me that veteran Atlanta third baseman Chipper Jones made it clear to the Braves pitchers that they'd better bring their game faces to San Francisco.

"Chipper was razzing us, asking who was going to live in infamy by giving one up to Bonds—you know, kidding but not really kidding. Some guys might think it's cool to get their name in the record books that way, but it is definitely not cool."

So it wasn't going to be an easy night for the Giants' slugger.

Still, as I hit the waterfront and get my rented kayak rigged and ready, I imagine the looks on the faces of my baseball buddies if I were to call them and say, "One of us just caught a $500,000 baseball. Check your hands."

It could happen.