''Uh, I know who you are, Mr. Mattingly,'' I said, stuttering. ''I'm Matt, the new batboy.''

''Nice to meet you, Matt,'' he said with a firm handshake. ''Listen,'' he told me, as if I could have done anything else. ''I've got a job for you. I just unpacked my bats from spring training. I don't know if it was the humidity in Florida or the altitude of the flight or what, but they're all coming up short. I need you to get me a bat stretcher.''

I nodded, trying to project competence. Get a bat stretcher.

I located Nick digging through a trunk of underwear. ''Nick,'' I told him, ''I need a bat stretcher for Don Mattingly.'' I'd barely gotten the words out before Nick hit me with a barrage of expletives. Spittle hit my cheek. I'd never heard such a tirade before, not even in the movies. I scurried away, and confided in Nick's assistant. ''Don Mattingly asked me to get him a bat stretcher,'' I said, ''and Nick, uh, told me not to bother him.''

He put his hand on my shoulder and smiled. ''Try Tartabull, Matty,'' he said.

Danny Tartabull, the Yankees' power-hitting right fielder, was getting dressed on the other side of the clubhouse. He kicked at some baseball spikes at the foot of his locker before turning to face me. ''It's Matt?'' he asked. ''I was using it earlier, Matt, but I must have left it in the manager's office.'' I thanked him and checked my watch. Time was short, and I felt a heavy burden of responsibility. First pitch wasn't more than an hour or two away, and 60,000 fans were coming to see Don Mattingly lead the Yankees against the Red Sox. I didn't need anyone to explain to me that he wouldn't be able to do much against Roger Clemens with a shrunken piece of wood. Mattingly had asked me to help him, and I couldn't fathom what it might mean to let him down.

Buck Showalter sat behind the manager's desk, surrounded by a half-dozen reporters. I waited patiently until the conversation fell silent. ''I'm, uh, really sorry to interrupt, Mr. Showalter,'' I began. All eyes turned toward me. ''I'm Matt, the new batboy. Don Mattingly needs a bat stretcher because his bats shrunk on the way up from Fort Lauderdale, and Danny Tartabull had it before but, uh, he says he left it in here this morning.'' Showalter scanned the floor at the feet of the beat writers, and peered under his desk. ''In here? It's possible,'' he mused aloud. ''But do you need a right-handed or a left-handed one?''

Everyone knew Mattingly was one of the best left-handed hitters in baseball. ''Left-handed,'' I answered confidently.

''Well, Tartabull's isn't going to do Mattingly any good then, is it?'' he said. ''You better try down at the Red Sox clubhouse.'' I grinned weakly and excused myself from the room.

I found the Red Sox equipment manager right away, and recounted what I'd been through that morning. Given the traditional enmity between the two teams, I was relieved that he seemed willing to help. He checked his watch. ''You don't have much time,'' he said. ''We didn't bring a bat stretcher with us, but we could use one, too.'' He dug into his pocket and produced a $20 bill. ''Go up to 161st and buy two, a left-handed one for Mattingly and a right-handed one for us.''