Jeff Jacobs takes a trip down baseball's lost highway...

In purely linear terms, I-95 runs 1,850 miles, give or take a Vince Lombardi rest stop, from Miami to the northern edge of Red Sox Nation. On a cool Sunday in May, however, a 300-mile stretch of I-95 between Baltimore and eastern Connecticut would suffice as a dreamer's path to baseball heaven. The game died on Friday. The game was born again on Sunday. And as I madly punch the buttons to radio talk shows in D.C., Philly and New York, I cannot decide if this is baseball redemption or the work of false prophets. With Major League Baseball, one must guard against sudden epiphany. All I know is baseball was gutter trash when I climbed into my car to drive home from the Preakness, and the world was perfect when Yankees broadcaster John Sterling made the ninth-inning call five hours later. At 11 a.m., baseball smelled worse than dead Marlins baking in the south Florida sun. Gary Sheffield was the second-greediest man in the world. Mark Piazza was the greediest. And if baseball had any leadership, any dignity, champions would not be allowed to dismember themselves in such disgusting fashion. By 4:15 p.m., I was hanging on every Sterling syllable: ``Popped up to right field. O'Neill near the line. He's made the catch! David Wells has pitched a perfect game, 27 up, 27 down. Baseball immortality for David Wells. And the Yankees win. Thhhhheee Yankees win!'' Baseball on radio is lush in detail and pleasing in pace. And when you listen to only the 15th perfect game in baseball history, the tension and chills are undeniable.

Back in the Sixties, I spent entire summer nights cruising a dial in the family kitchen: from Chuck Thompson and the Orioles, to Curt Gowdy and the Red Sox, to the Yankees and Mets. I'd leave the final totals for my dad, in bed early before work, to study in the morning. I thought about what a thrill it would have been for a 12-year-old boy to scribble on a notepad: Yankees 4-6-0. Minnesota 0-0-0. I thought about the thousands of kids among the 49,820 at Yankee Stadium on Sunday. So many had turned out for a Beanie Baby promotion. So many left as baseball fans. Do we dare tell them the truth? Or do we let them find out on their own what a selfish wretch baseball has become? Even adults wrapped themselves in the romantic link between Wells and Don Larsen. Wells was knighted Everyman. He was knighted The Imperfect Man, as Larsen was when he pitched his perfect World Series game for the Yankees in 1956. Wells is a street kid who does 16- ounce curls, favors Harley Davidsons and sleeveless T-shirts. He collects tattoos, baseball memorabilia and, as a lifelong Yankee fan, seems to think he's the reincarnation of Babe Ruth. His body fat is slightly less than that of a pot-bellied pig. He plays air guitar to Metallica. He suffered through the gout and he busted up his hand in a bar fight. He even threatened George Steinbrenner in the locker room last season. He attended the same San Diego high school as Larsen. And like Larsen, Wells is known to, ahem, enjoy life. He is no hot dog. He only devours them, in the company of barley malt. As cuddly as all that sounds, reality forces me to stop short of joining in the Everyman chorus. Everyman does not have a three- year, $13.5 million contract.

When ESPN went on the air Sept. 7, 1979, one player, Nolan Ryan, made $1 million a year among four major sports. That number has swelled to 1,107, including 317 in baseball. This does not make them bad men, but it doesn't make them Everyman. We are not a nation of millionaires. It is absurd to lay all the blame for the devastating inflationary spiral of salaries and ticket prices on athletes and their agents. Owners and a commissioner, if baseball had a legit one, must share the burden. When the defending champions are on their way to slashing a $53 million payroll to $12 million to $16 million (the [Hartford] Whalers had a $25 million payroll in their last year, for goodness' sake), something is horribly wrong. Gone in the name of finding a new owner are Sheffield, Charles Johnson, Bobby Bonilla, Moises Alou, Kevin Brown, Devon White, Al Leiter, Kurt Abbott, Alex Arias, Jeff Conine, Dennis Cook, Darren Daulton, Tony Saunders and Jim Eisenreich. Gone is credibility. They ran a parade. They ran a garage sale. And when they are finished, they will shatter the Reds' 1991 record (74-88) as the worst by a defending champ. Beyond spitting in the face of their fans, the Marlins have become middlemen in the flesh-peddling industry. They will unload Piazza, who they obtained from the Dodgers Friday in the most expensive trade in baseball history, for prospects before the July 31 deadline. Baltimore? Colorado? Arizona? The Cubs? If a contender wants to rent him for a couple months before he becomes a free agent, Piazza could prove to be a bountiful mercenary. Through five full seasons, Piazza has the best offensive numbers of any catcher in history. He's also selfish, his catching mechanics are bad and he calls a weak game. Once his ego or knees surrender, he will be a first baseman or a DH. How do you feel sorry for a guy who refuses the biggest baseball contract ever offered, six years for $84 million, because he wants to be the game's first $100 Million Man? Even after you subtract Piazza and Todd Zeile, the Dodgers still are absording $80 million. As rich as Rupert Murdoch is, who knows how committed he is to Sheffield and Bonilla? Sheffield initially balked at lifting the no-trade clause on his $61 million deal. He wanted the Dodgers to make up the difference for California state taxes. Please. It's a shame Piazza and Sheffield couldn't be stuck together on the Marlins with 23 Double A players for the next three years. It's an even bigger shame fans, the real Everyman, couldn't cruise along I-95 forever, listening to the lush sounds of baseball perfection on the radio.

Footnote: Mike Piazza traded to the New York Mets the following Friday, May 22, after just one week with the Florida Marlins.