It still wakes me up at night from time to time. The same bad dreams. The same cold sweats. The same blood thirsty crowd, and all that mind-numbing pressure. The scene always manages to hang somewhere nearby.

It's happened to everyone. For all of us there was the moment when our childhood ended, that moment that caused us to look in the mirror in a much different way. The onset of the receding hairline, and the creditors, and all the pitfalls and trappings of adulthood. Some people live their formative years sheltered from the experiences that accelerate maturity. Comfortable homes and stable families keep them young as long as possible. But others have maturity thrust upon them all at once, in a painful or traumatic moment that haunts them as long as they live. Unfortunately I belong in the latter category. I have my one distinct, indisputable moment of shock and horror that altered me forever.

October 15, 1988.

I was eight years old and the Oakland A's were my obsession. On any given day I could have given you Walt Weiss' batting average. I could have told you how many doubles Dave Henderson had off the top of my head. The Bash Brothers were my heroes, and I practiced the Dave Stewart scowl in the mirror. I watched every telecast in my bedroom on a twelve inch black and white television that was passed on to me once we were able to afford a small color television for the living room. I gnawed on my t-shirt through every late inning. The green and gold cap seemingly never left my head. Through a historic 40-40 season. Through 104 wins. I cheered my na