Let's say you're walking out of Edison Field on Saturday night. You've taken seven left turns and find yourself slightly nauseous and leaning against a concrete pillar in the southeast corner of Ramp A on the club level behind the first-base line. You look down and see, in the middle of a shallow pool of beer and spent sunflower seeds forming the shape of Idaho, the media badge that allows access to the clubhouses.

You pin it to your shirt and choose the Giants, figuring you'll get to talk to Barry Bonds.

	It's tough to catch Barry before he runs out of the locker room.

Here's how it goes:

A group of about 60 people, some holding boom mikes, others jockeying for position with 50-pound cameras on their shoulders or heads. There are no personal-space considerations, and for the people in the back, Bonds' locker is no more than a rumor.

You're late, so you're in the back. People are on deadline. Nerves are frayed.

"He in there?" someone asks.

"I'm not sure. I can't see. Wait, there he is. I think I see him."

"Is he talking?"

"I don't know."

"Has he talked?"

Someone a few feet closer, a man whose legs are wrapped like a pot roast in camera cables, turns and says, "He's going to talk after he gets dressed."

You can't see a thing, but you get the impression he's talking when all the cameras click on and the group surges forward as if hit by a sleeper wave. Everyone's straining an ear toward the locker. They start to write, then sigh and roll their eyes. They can't hear a thing. When a guy on the left asks a question, nobody on the right can hear the answer.

The guy who lockers two to the right of Bonds comes out of the shower, saying, "Got to get through. Got to get through." Room is made, barely. Balances are lost. The mob sways slightly, then rights itself.

You're catching bits of words, maybe every fourth or fifth. Nothing makes sense.

You're ready to give up. Someone walks over and nods his head at you.

"Hey," he says. "He in there?"

This Week's List

One reason why it's never a good idea to issue a press credential to the reporter from PETA Today: The dumbest question, by far, in this World Series came when a straight-faced reporter asked Benito Santiago, "I've heard they eat monkeys in Puerto Rico. Is that true?"

Worst trend in interviewing: Beginning an alleged question with, "Talk about …"

Like a comedian on a bad night, you've got to stick with your material: Ben Weber can glare and snarl and sneer all he wants out there, but it doesn't have much impact when the pitches you're throwing end up rocketing past your ears.

Best example that Mike Scioscia is a good human: After a 16-4 loss, the first question he received in the press conference began, "Coach …" -- a taboo with many baseball managers -- and Scioscia not only let it slide but answered the question as if he didn't even notice.

Let's just say he's not big on drawing a connection between OPS and win shares: Jeff Kent, in the middle of an atypical stretch of strikeouts and popups, gritting his teeth and remaining polite through the overanalysis of the postgame interviews.

A race we'd like to see: Bengie Molina vs. Darren Baker, Dusty's 3-year-old, sometimes-in-the-way batboy son.

Two guys who don't seem overly concerned with shortening up and making contact with two strikes: Benito Santiago and Adam Kennedy.

When baseball becomes a Dr. Laura segment: The biggest overreaction of the Series is the someone-could-lose-an-eye histrionics surrounding Darren Baker's unfortunate positioning and J.T. Snow's collar save.

Just for the heck of it: Bill Bathe.

He's got the off days off, though: Felix Rodriguez, a perfect 5 for 5 in games pitched.

Forget Cal Ripken, here's my most memorable moment: A bitter cold night at Candlestick Park, early season 1992, and the Giants' Gil Heredia takes the mound and proceeds to give up nine straight hits to the Houston Astros before being removed from the game.

And if you ask the musical question, "Where in the world is …" you'll have the tune stuck in your head all day long: During the postgame press conferences Thursday night, one reporter asked the same question to four different people -- "What does it mean to the team to have Jeff Kent and Benito San Diego hitting at the same time?"

One more example of how being elected to the Hall of Fame would blow the whole gig for Pete Rose: Before Game 4 Wednesday night, Rose got a three-minute standing ovation that might still be going on if he hadn't walked off the field.

And, as our finely honed instincts tell us: He desperately wanted to stay out there through … oh, next Wednesday sounds about right.

Nearly without fail, based on the simple act of throwing four wide ones: The Barry Bonds Story morphs into the Benito Santiago Story.

Guy whose quiet, subdued manner belies his importance to his club: David Bell.

Strategy question that, judging by postgame reaction, I was the only one asking: Why didn't the Angels walk Bell to set up a double play and deal with one of the Giants' pinch hitters in the eighth inning of Game 4?

At about 6:40 p.m. PST Thursday night, we were all asking ourselves the same question: Just what would it take for Mike Scioscia to remove Jarrod Washburn from a game?

If you question whether Dusty Baker knows how to run a baseball team, consider this fact: His team is in the World Series with a bench of Tom Goodwin, Tsuyoshi Shinjo, Shawon Dunston, Ramon Martinez and Pedro Feliz.

Tell me if this is a stretch: That's the worst bench ever in World Series play, especially since the dawn of the DH.

Six guys who are acquitting themselves nicely in this Series: The umpires.

And finally, a cross-cultural question: Why doesn't my spell check flag Tsuyoshi?

Tim Keown is a senior writer for ESPN The Magazine. E-mail him at tim.keown@espnmag.com.