A few weeks ago, I drove through the South, visiting baseball landmarks. One of my stops was a trip to Turner Field, for the tour and a visit to the Braves museum there. That was March, and there were of course no games to see yet. But on Easter Weekend I returned to Atlanta for a convention, and luckily for me the following happy coincidences worked out: the Braves played a day game on Sunday, my speaking engagements were finished on Saturday, and my flight out wasn't scheduled until eight o'clock at night. And then there's the fact that Wayne Coleman, a Braves fan who reads "Why I Like Baseball," invited me to a game, as well.

So it was that I packed my pinstripes (the plain ones, not the Mussina jersey), hat, a bag of beef jerky, and my glove for the trip. Normally I would have considered leaving the glove at home, but Wayne had sent me a photo of his seats. In the first row behind the visitor's dugout. (Wow.) He also sent me a photo of himself as emcee of the Braves' winter banquet. In the photo with him are Hall of Famer Phil Niekro, and former president Jimmy Carter. (Indeed.) So I brought the glove for safety reasons, but left my radio at home, figuring that with a guy like Wayne in the seat next to me, he'd probably know as much, or more, than the broadcasters would. (I was right.)

It was another freezing cold day in Boston when I left--will the winter never end? But the Atlanta forecast was for temperatures in the seventies. From the plane I looked down on the same red-earthed hills I has driven through just a few weeks before. The in-flight video featured a biography of Jackie Robinson, whose birthplace in Cairo, Georgia I had visited. How did they know I had Georgia on my mind?

Easter Sunday dawned foggy but warm. I slept in, figuring there might not be batting practice (day game after a night game) and already having toured the stadium I didn't need to go there to poke around. Instead I packed my bags while watching Sportscenter, checked them with the bell captain, and caught the MARTA train to Five Points and the "Braves Shuttle" bus right around noon. The bus was easy to find--I just followed all the people in baseball caps coming off the train. A bunch of older folks, a family with a five year old in a Phillies cap and glove, a nice lady in a Chipper Jones jersey. Just in case, I asked her if we were going the right way and she made me laugh. "I don't know," she said. "I'm just following the crowd myself!"

We found the buses lined up a few blocks away, by the "World of Coca-Cola." It was a quick ride to the park. I picked up my ticket and a pass to the 755 Club at Will Call and went up to the club level to meet Wayne.

The 755 Club is, to put it mildly, posh. There is a $35 gourmet buffet up there, or you can eat a la carte. I was tempted by the creme brulee and chocolate torte ($7). I was reminded of the fancy restaurant at the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston, except that everyone in here was dressed for a baseball game.

Wayne recognized me right away in my NY hat and pinstripes. At the bar he introduced me to some other die-hard fans, including one lady who had a streak of 27 years without missing a game (sadly, recently broken because of job commitments). To represent the fans after the strike of '94, she threw out the first pitch of the 1995 season, the season the Braves went all the way. Obviously the team should consider doing that again, since they haven't won since, but this year they opted for a Coca-cola bigwig instead. Harrumph.

Wayne himself lived in Massachusetts for many years, and I never asked him how he ended up in Atlanta, but he told me he liked the Yankees up until 1996, when they beat the Braves. "I'm still not over the Maseroski homer from 1960," he told me, when we were discussing Ralph Terry and Mickey Mantle and Roger Maris. "We took a tour of Pittsburgh a couple of years back and they took us to the place on the campus where the section of the Forbes Field wall is still standing and I started shouting 'No! No! No!'"

Shane Reynolds was on the mound for Atlanta. I had to admit to the folks around me that I know nothing about Reynolds. "American League city, American League fan," I explained. Apparently he's a veteran, a decent pitcher, and Houston let him go this spring and the Braves snatched him. Today that looked like a great move, as yesterday Mike Hampton pitched well, but lost 4-0. Today the Braves' offense, lacking Chipper Jones (nagging hamstring) and Javy Lopez (banged up in last night's game), was itching for payback. And fortunately for them, Philadelphia had only Brandon Duckworth to rely on.

Duckworth's stuff was not impressive. He looked like he was missing his locations and there was no zip on his fastball. Sitting behind the dugout you could see and hear it, or the lack of it. No pop in the catcher's glove. No hiss on the delivery as the ball cut the air.

And the Braves jumped all over him. Duckworth had a moment when he could have taken control of the game in the first, with two men on and Gary Sheffield at the plate. Furcal had doubled and Giles had singled, but if Duckworth had been able to get the double play, you'd hardly think anything of it. But the count went full. If he could have retired Sheffield, I think he might have been able to grind out a few more innings. But instead he hit him on the 3-2 pitch to load the bases. Andruw Jones promptly singled, and by the time the inning was over four runs had crossed the plate.

In the second, it was much the same, and Sheffield again batted with two men on. After throwing two balls out of the strike zone, Duckworth gave him the intentional pass to load the bases, and then walked Andruw Jones to force in a run. Ouch. He came out of the game at that point. Wayne asked, "What's a duck worth?" "Oh, about five runs." Seven to nothing Atlanta by the time the second had ended.

So there was not much tension in the game with such a big lead, and we had a great time enjoying the simple pleasures in life, like hot dogs and talking baseball. Through four innings, though, Reynolds still had not given up a hit. I didn't say anything about it--I would hate to be the jinx, after all--and neither did anyone around me. But with two out in the fifth, when Todd Pratt finally hit a blooper into no man's land in shallow right, and Marcus Giles made a herculean dive to try to get the ball, it became clear that Giles, and most of the fans in the place, were aware of the no-hit bid. Reynolds got a huge ovation at that point, climbing back on the mound with the same implacable calm he had shown throughout the game. It was quite a feat and the crowd was quite aware of it.

Reynolds continued mowing down the Phillies. He finally tired in the seventh, and after an error put a man on, he gave up a legitimate hard shot into the gap, and left the game to an ever bigger ovation. In a town where they are used to good pitching, this season has been somewhat short on it--Glavine gone, Maddux struggling--so it must have been a sweet sight to Braves fans eyes.

The final score was 8-1 Braves, and I felt privileged to have seen it. The team has been sputtering a bit of late, and it was like they broke out the whoopin' sticks just for me! Sheffield's fifteen game hitting streak was snapped, the no-hitter was broken up and so was the shut-out, but so what? I got to spend my Easter Sunday with the faithful, with twenty two thousand die-hard fans (they must be die-hards to come on Easter--the guys sitting behind us came straight from church...). Braves fans have been much maligned for their poor turnout in recent postseasons, but on this day they proved themselves both passionate and knowledgable.

And how's this for some final coincidences? I am on the flight home now as I write this. And the in-flight video is about Henry Aaron, a true Braves hero. Not only that, there is a guy sitting in first class who is either Andruw Jones or an absolute dead ringer for him. Why on earth would Andruw Jones be flying to Boston tonight? I don't know, but it sure as heck looks exactly like him. He was talking on his cell phone or I would have said "great game" as I went past him to my own seat. (Three for three with two walks. Not too shabby.) All I know is the smile on his face is almost as big as the one on mine.