Like most of the players, Hatteberg, as a minor leaguer, had signed a contract with the Louisville Slugger company, in which he agreed to use only the company's bats. All but certain that he would not play tonight, he had taken his contraband bat with him to the dugout. By the time the score was 11-0, certain that he would never play, he had the bat between his knees and four cups of coffee in his bloodstream. He is, by the bottom of the ninth, chemically altered. He's also holding a bat he's never hit with.

The score remains 11-11. The Kansas City closer, Jason Grim-sley, is on the mound, throwing his usual blazing sinkers. Jer-maine Dye flies to right for the first out. The television camera pans the A's dugout and from their expressions you can see that a lot of the players think the game is as good as lost. In losing an eleven-run lead, they'd lost more than that. They look as if they know the last good thing already has happened to them.

Art Howe tells Scott Hatteberg to grab a bat. He's pinch-hitting. Hatteberg grabs the bat given to him by the anonymous craftsman. It violates the contract he signed as a minor leaguer with the Louisville Slugger company, but what the hell.

He had faced Grimsley just two days before, in a similar situation. Tie game, bottom of the ninth, but that time there were men on base. He didn't need to watch tape tonight. With a pitcher like Grimsley you always know what you'll be getting: 96-mph heat. You also, usually, know where you'll be getting it: at the bottom of, or just below, the strike zone. Two days ago Grimsley had thrown him six straight sinking fastballs, down and away. With two strikes on him, Hatteberg had swung at the last of them and hit a weak ground ball to second base. (Miguel Tejada had followed him with a game-winning single up the middle.) As disappointing as that experience had been, it now served a purpose. He'd seen six pitches from Jason Grimsley. He's gathered his information. He knew that, if at all possible, he shouldn't fool around with Grimsley's low sinkers.

Tonight, as he steps into the box, he promises himself that he won't swing at anything down in the zone until he has two strikes. He'll wait for what he wants until he has no choice but to accept whatever happens to be coming. He's looking for something up-something he can drive for a double, and get himself in scoring position.

He settles into his usual open stance, and waggles the shiny black contraband bat back and forth through the zone, like a golfer on the first tee. As Grimsley comes into the stretch, his face contorts in the most unsettling way. He actually grins as he pitches, and it's not a friendly grin. It's the grin of a man who enjoys pulling wings off flies. The effect on the TV viewer is unnerving. But Hatty doesn't see Grimsley's face. He's gazing at the general area where he expects the ball to leave Grimsley's hand. He needs to see just one pitch, to get his timing down. He's thinking: if I can lay off the first pitch I might get a pitch up in the zone. Over and over he's telling himself: lay off the first pitch. The man who will this year lead the entire American League in laying off first pitches feels he needs to give himself a pep talk to lay off the first pitch. It must be the caffeine.

He lays off the first pitch. It's a ball, just low. Another round of horrible facial expressions, and Grimsley's ready again. The second pitch is another fastball, but it's high in the strike zone. Hatty takes his short swing; the ball finds the barrel of his bat, and rockets into deep right center field.

He leaves the batter's box in a crouching run. He's moving just as fast as he does when he hits a slow roller to the third baseman. He doesn't see Grimsley raging. He doesn't hear fifty-five thousand fans erupting. He doesn't notice the first baseman turning to leave the field. He doesn't know that there's a fellow from Coop-erstown following him around the bases, picking them up, and will soon come looking for his bat. The only one in the entire Coliseum who does not know where the ball is going is the man who hit it. Scott Hatteberg alone watches the ball soar through the late night air with something like detachment.

The ball doesn't just leave the park; it lands high up in the stands, fifty feet or so beyond the 362 sign in deep right center field. When he's finally certain that the ball is gone for good, Scott Hatteberg raises both hands over his head, less in triumph than disbelief. Rounding first, he looks into the Oakland dugout. But there's no one left inside-the players are all rushing onto the field. Elation transforms him. He shouts at his teammates. He's not saying: Look what I just did. He's saying: Look what we just did! We won! As he runs, he sheds years at the rate of about one every twenty feet. By the time he touches home plate, he's less man than boy.

And, not five minutes later, Billy Beane was able to look me in the eye and say that it was just another win.