When I walked into the house after 10 last night, I was glad to find T curled up on the couch watching the World Series. I figured it would be my last chance to see baseball for the season, and so it was. The Brewers won the series the convincingly, playing a lovely old-fashioned version of small ball--not relying on home runs but on an onslaught of base hits that got them onto base and then running. I like a big blast as much as the next person, but small ball is fun because it is busy--always something happening on the base paths: hitters teasing pitchers, pitchers teasing hitters, base stealers, pickoffs, swanky double plays, and then a tiny defensive error that lets the runners explode.

But now the games are over, and I will tuck my baseball habit into hibernation for a few months. Outside, in the darkness, a train hoots. Inside, Chuckie loudly crunches up some chow. A new fire shimmers in the stove.

I'm a little bit sleepy. I was out late, and went to bed late, but got up at the same old workaday time. Maybe I can snag a nap this morning before the afternoon odyssey begins. Last night's tech rehearsal was mostly for lights and sound; the performers hung around doing nothing and were cold and slightly grumpy, which is, I think, a typical description of tech rehearsals. But this afternoon that will change: we will be in the throes of cue checks and walk-throughs and run-throughs and nerves. The space is gorgeous and is professionally staffed, which is a huge help, but it also has peculiar sound and light issues and a very hard floor, all of which affect us in different ways. So I expect we'll stumble into some challenges during rehearsals.

Still, it's been fun to be on the performance circuit. I haven't done much of it since the days I was playing fiddle with Doughty Hill, and I do enjoy the excitement of hanging out with a troupe in one odd situation after another and figuring out how to get the night's job done. Constructing a performance is so different from standing in front of an audience in an open room. And practicing for a music gig is nothing like playing three sets in a crowded bar . . .

. . . and in between sets stepping outside into a winter night, coatless because you're so sweaty from playing so hard. The relief of that sharp air. The camaraderie of the smokers who surround you. You're a stranger but you just played a fiddle lead on "Wagon Wheel" so they love you. Another hour to go. You take deep breaths of cold smoky star-speckled night. Your bare arms prickle.