The Mag's Brendan O'Connor snuck out of the office yesterday afternoon. We all knew where he was going.

As an industry professional, it is imperative that my rooting interest in things sporting be tempered by objectivity. I must never let the passions of fanaticism cloud my perspective of the game at hand. That, and there's no cheering in the press box.

	If you look really closely, you can see The Mag's Brendan O'Connor cheering madly. Okay, maybe not.

But yesterday's Yanks vs. M's game afforded welcome relief from the rigors of professionalism. I had a ticket, a seat, a license to cheer and chant and rant and slap high fives with strangers. I was of the body fanatic, and I was pumped.

Bottom first, bases loaded, nobody out, Bernie Williams at the plate. At last the punchless World Chumps are going to break out, get some hits, score some runs, send the 48,000 of us who've cut out of work early to catch the four o'clock start into frenzied euphoria. We're ready. Bernie isn't. A six inch dribbler -- a cheapy that would warrant a do-over in stickball -- leads to two outs. One swing later, the scoreboard still blank, we sit back down -- the run-teased equivalent of unrequited lust sending a not-so-subtle groan throughout the stands.

Subsequent stanzas unfold much like the first: a walk, a hit, a strikeout, a bummer. We chant, we cheer, encourage and cajole. After Seattle's Mike Cameron -- all but picked off at first base -- scores from second on a Stan Javier single, our enthusiasm spills over into open desperation.

Again two on, less than two out. Again we cannot score. It's the biggest one-run lead we've ever been down. We try not to care, we try to care more, we even switch seats to try sparking a rally. A lopsided yellow moon floats over the Bronx County Court House. We howl.

It does not help.

And now it's the eighth, six outs from the skid row of being down 2-0. David Justice -- whom we've taunted and teased for years because he played for them and was married to her which somehow gave us the right, and that's what we do -- works the count full then drills a liner to the wall. The anticipation is deafening. But Williams, or rather, Berrr-nie, Berrr-nie, comes through. From the resulting pandemonium, the rush of utter relief, you'd think it was 1951, the Polo Grounds, all over again. "A SINGLE UP THE MIDDLE! A SINGLE UP THE MIDDLE! A SINGLE UP THE MIDDLE!"

Seven hits, seven runs and six outs later, Sinatra's letting it happen over the loudspeaker and we're jogging for the gate. As I head down the ramp and past the press box, I see a cluster of rushing, stress-worn faces, darting towards the elevator, notebooks in hand. I pause and finger the press pass tucked in my pocket. Maybe I should go, work the post-game, get a quote. As I'm leaning towards the objective -- towards the professional -- Freddie the Pan Man is suddenly in front of me. Smiling toothlessly, he holds up the well-dented tin pan that he parades through the stands 81 nights a year, the whacking of which is the tried and true rally-making rite of the faithful. I take his spoon, pat Freddie on his well-padded right shoulder, and rattle that pan like the fan that I am.

Brendan O'Connor writes baseball for ESPN The Magazine. But not all the time.