B-Mets in Bowie tonight with yours truly in attendance after sitting out a 90-minute delay at the start. Saw the Beamers fall behind 4-0 after one after a series of seeing-eye hits, and then chip back with the benefit of two well placed shots by DH Mike Baxter. Bottom of the third, Josh Barfield, slumming from his big-league days, manages to do what I thought a righthanded hitter couldn't do, pull a liner liner over the far end of the third-base dugout. I was in row B and gloveless, with the ball whistling for a spot vaguely between my eyes. Nowhere to go, I had time for a micro-second assessment of my life, a quick prayer (the contents of which was "B..."), and to note the distinctive J with which Eastern League Commissioner Joe McEacharn signs his name. I dove for cover, certain that it was the last of my many undignified acts on this planet. But somehow I heard the clank of the ball striking an iron rail behind me, and slowly emerged from my wife's cleavage, shocked but certain that the ball had somehow vaporized and passed through my skull only to materialize on the other side. (It was Superhero Night.) Dozens of Baysox fans --- already wearied by my expatriate New Yorker act but not wishing me so much harm as all that --- stared gape-mouthed at my still-shaking body. What could I do? I got to my feet and yelled, "I HATE, you, Josh Barfield!" and moved back ten rows. It was already a late night, the rain was picking up, and we have morning plans, so we cut out (rather pathetically) after the third inning. On our way out, I had more or less the same conversation three times. "Aren't you the guy that almost got hit?" "Yeah, that's me." "How did that ball miss you?" "I'm still not sure it did." Bingo down 7-4 after seven. Gonzalez Germen was lifted after the first, but among the parade of relievers that followed was C.J. Nitkowski with a scoreless inning.