As I was helping Elsbeth make the bed this morning, out of the blue she said, "The radio says that Felix got a tight elbow in the first inning and that is why we lost."

I was astounded. She is truly hooked on baseball. Before she came to America in 1949 she didn't know a baseball from a casaba and here she is an announcer. Shades of Dave Niehaus or Rod Belcher.

Here I am, born with a Louisville Slugger in my crib, pounding my Johnny Pesky glove till my fist turned raw every waking moment.

A 10-year-old pepper boy wonder at second base in a vacant lot yelling at the imaginary ump, the batter or even stray dogs, ripping my school longies on an awkward slide, pounding the plate with the business end of my favorite bat like Mike Higgins, Portland hot corner star, and ignoring the catcalls from so-called teammates when I botched an easy grounder.

I knew baseball. I knew the batting averages of every would-be Joe DiMaggio. I once yelled at Portland left fielder Lou Finney and he turned around and waved at me in the bleachers. What a thrill.

I even turned out one year for Portland Beavers batboy along with 200 others and got beaten out by a kid named Donnie Kirsch. And 198 others.

I lost out even though I was batboy for the Woodlawn grade school team. So much for experience.

Donnie went on to become a legendary head baseball coach for the Oregon Ducks.

If the Mariners are looking for strength at the plates they should give Elsbeth a tryout on pot roast. She led the league in D