Up in Michigan, in a clean, well-lighted room, Nick and Bill played dice baseball. A hard autumn rain pelted the cottage. World Series rain.

The dice rattled in the bowl. "Groundout to short," Nick said. "The dice know who's at bat," Bill said, sipping his whisky. "The rolling of the dice is tragic." "There's always more to it than we know." They were replaying the 1989 Series between the

Athletics of Oakland and the Giants of San Francisco.

"The great Canseco is up," Nick said.

"Is the broken wrist of the great Canseco healed?" Bill said.

"It is a good wrist. A true wrist."

"I would one day like to call the 900 number of the great Canseco."

Nick poured another whisky. "I would like to see the great Canseco run the bulls."

Bill said: "The great Canseco is good at running the bull."

"But I wouldn't trade him for ten Indians." Nick rolled the dice.

"Strikeout."

"The dice know ..."

Nick nodded, cutting him off. They tugged at their whiskies.

"This whisky is swell," Nick said.

“It is," Bill said.

"Let's get drunk."

"Before the game?"

"Before the game."

"Who do you think will win tonight?"

"Hard to say. The first game of the Series is always a tossup." "It will be a good game." "Yes. Truly." The dice tumbled into the bowl.

"Single to left," Nick said. He topped his drink, skipping the water this time. "Hit and run," he called.

"Caught stealing," Bill said. "The dice know who's running."

Nick said: "I hate the end of the baseball season. It's worse than that business with Marge ever was."

"It's tragic," Bill said.

"Well," Nick said, "there's always hunting and fishing."

Bill nodded. "But nothing beats baseball."

"Nothing."

"Do you think they'll ever make dice fishing?"

"Gentlemen, I give you fishing."

Nick rolled up his sleeves and cast the dice into the bowl.

"Snagged in the weeds. Cut bait."

"The dice know who's fishing."

They laughed, choking, snorting whisky out their noses.

When they calmed, Bill rubbed the dice, spit on them -- ptooie! – and chucked them into the bowl. "Double," he said.

They stared at the dice. One white. One red.

"Nick? Are we getting too old for dice baseball?"

"We'll never be too old for dice baseball."

"It's swell, isn't it?"

"Swell."

"There's just the purity of the cards."

"The ballplayers only play so we can have our game."

"The season's over in a few days."

"Yes. It's been a good season. A true season. A dangerous season."

"The World Series tonight truly will be tragic." "Let's get very drunk." "We'll always have the dice baseball." Bill slopped out two more whiskies. They bunted glasses, sloshing whisky onto the game boards, cards and scoresheets. They laughed again.

"The dice know who's drinking."

The wind ripped the leaves from the trees. The rain stitched the roof, sounding like cleats on cement. And the dice clattered into the bowl as Nick and Bill heard the bell toll for the end of another baseball season.