One summer evening back in 1993 or 1994, when the Rockies still played at Mile High Stadium, Mr Woodstock and I were taking in a game. A group came to sit in the row next to us, a clutch of American businessmen entertaining two visitors from Britain. One of the Brits was an extraordinarily beautiful young woman, who was clearly bored stiff. The Americans nevertheless focused all their attention on her, explaining the rules, interpreting the action on the field, trying harder and harder to impress her while she struggled to find the stamina to make the time pass painlessly.

The other Brit was seated next to me. He also knew nothing about baseball. Since his American hosts had left him to drift through the evening on his own, he and I began to visit. Little by little I discovered a very apt pupil waiting to learn as much as he could.

The pitcher that evening was Greg(?) Harris, who had a rocky time of it in Denver. (no pun intended) But that evening was one of his rare successful outings, and when he finally left the mound he got a nice round of applause. I tried to explain about his responsibility for men on base, ERA's, the signal to the bullpen for a left handed reliever, finding myself more and more involved with the complicated munitiae of baseball.

An inning or two later, the Rockies turned a double play. My student, without any prompting, leaped out of his seat, shouting enthusiastically, "well played, oh, I say, well played!"

Rather sheepishly, he sat back down again. He turned to me: "I think I'm beginning to understand this game!"

It was a very enjoyable evening for me, and for him. He pumped my hand with vigor when they finally got up to head back to the hotel. That poor woman with him probably felt as if she had lived several lifetimes waiting for her torment to be over.