From the Publisher

By Elizabeth Valk Long

Each summer Time goes to battle, well, to bat, against the likes of the New York Times and Newsweek in the softball fields of Manhattan's Central Park. This Publishers League season, however, did not begin well. Said captain Lamarr Tsufura, who troubleshoots computer problems during the off-season: "We had a disastrous game on opening day." But ya gotta believe.

As the hazy, lazy days of summer rolled along, the wins slowly piled up. And with each one, the cries of News Desk editor Anderson Fils-Aime echoed louder and louder from out in left field where he played: "MINE! MINE! I GOT IT! I GOT IT!" He always did. Suddenly we were in the playoffs and giddy with excitement. The usually circumspect first baseman (and TIME public affairs director) Robert Pondiscio was promising to shave his head if we won the championship. "This is serious stuff," said first-base coach Rafael Soto, who directs incoming mail for the magazine. "It's the only way we can get physical with our rivals." Then we made it into the finals.

But there were omens to consider. Our opponent was the Village Voice, a team that had not lost a game all season. And we had choked before. We lost last year's final in a heartbreaker against the New York Times. We were also missing our perpetual pitcher and co-captain Janice Castro. Associate editor Castro was on leave writing a book. Not to worry. Reporter Tresa Chambers stepped in, giving up only one run.

TIME's offense, meanwhile, banged out eight runs, with hits by, among others, Bob Marshall of our legal department, library clerk Ann McCarthy and associate editor Sophfronia Scott Gregory. "We won?" asked Tsufura's co- techie Kevin Kelly from the bench as a Voice batter hit the final out into Chambers' glove. "Yes!" came the reply from a jubilant mob.

Softball isn't life, nor is it journalism. Yet there is an enchantment about the game, in the laughter of comrades, the cheers of friends, the resonance of a ball well hit, the pulsing high after racing for home. Maybe this is what life should be all about. We'll figure it out next summer -- at the ball games.

For now, though, the barber is waiting for Mr. Pondiscio.