It's 6:15 p.m. The locusts with pens and microphones have been swept from the Phillies' clubhouse. It's theirliving room again. Creeping to the center of the room, like a seven-year-old in Dad's pajamas, is their stumpy catcher lost inside their massive first baseman's uniform and cleats. A half foot of Ryan Howard's pant legs droop from Carlos Ruiz's feet. That alone has the clubhouse cackling … but Chooch has more. He has made a career by watching everyone in silence, recording everything. This one's easy meat.
He lowers his backside like an emperor settling onto an invisible throne, imitating Howard's setup in the batter's box, then points the end of Howard's bat at an imaginary pitcher, sighting on his prey like Howie does. Only now Chooch begins tilting his head and squinting, trying to see around Howard's big black war club, then yelps, "Hey! Where ees the peetcher? I can't see him!" and the whole squad's howling.