The room was a mess. It always was at night. In the morning, however, it would be just as he had found it. The chairs would be pushed neatly under the heavy wooden table, the clothes would be gone and the trash would be in the basket. He would leave it as neat as could be, except for the unmade bed.

A large gray duffel bag sat on the floor at the foot of the single bed. It was nearly empty as the clothes it had housed on the bus trip were scattered about the room. Dirty socks and underwear had been tossed on the floor and a pair of tan dress slacks and a white dress shirt lay on the side of the bed. A pair of blue jeans and a black T-shirt lay on top of the comforter which had been pushed up toward the end of the bed.

Around the corner in the bathroom the steam still hung in the air from a recent shower. In front of the mirror, still blurry with condensation, lay a razor, comb, can of shaving cream, and a toothbrush with toothpaste. A half-used bar of motel soap lay on the sink, still sudsy from its last washing. An overnight bag packed with toiletries sat to one side of the white porcelain sink.

A soiled gray uniform with the number 27 emblazoned in large blue print on the back lay on the brown carpeted floor between the bathroom and the bed. A pair of navy stirrups and cleats were tossed haphazardly in the corner of the room. A worn leather glove and a dark blue cap, stained with weeks of dirt sat on a corner of the dark mahogany dresser. The yellow porcelain lamp on the small wooden nightstand seemed dim in contrast to the bright light shining from the television set. On the screen a major league baseball game played itself out, just as it had almost every other night this summer, in every other motel, in every other town that the Brookside Falcons played in. l