Editor's Note: From his home on the Northern California coast, Page 2's Eric Neel is keeping a diary of the 2002 pennant races involving the Giants, Dodgers, A's and Angels. This is the 16th installment of Neel's journal.

Last night's scoreboard: A's lose to Mariners, 3-2; Angels lose to Rangers, 4-3; Giants over Padres, 6-0; and Dodgers rally to beat the Rockies, 3-2.

Status: The A's still haven't clinched the division; the Angels still haven't clinched the wild-card; the Giants have climbed to within two games of the NL West lead and remain three games up on the Dodgers for the wild card.

	Mike Cameron's two-run homer rained on the A's parade.

Mike Cameron's hat sits a little off-center; it kind of shoots up and off the right side of his head for no reason. There is a bit of uh-uh in it, a little mischief, a touch of not tonight, boys, tonight I go deep in the eighth and make things interesting, tonight I make you wait.

It looked for all the world, with Tim Hudson cruising and with an Angels' loss in their back pockets, like the A's would win the division Wednesday night in Seattle. It looked, despite Anaheim's recent tailspin, like Seattle would be eliminated. Cameron and his happy trouble-making cap had other ideas.

And so there he stood, in center in the top of the ninth, moments after hitting a two-run job to put his team in front, looking jaunty and satisfied, glad to have monkeyed up the works, jazzed to have turned the story of the night on its ear.

Arthur Rhodes got one out in the ninth, and then Kazuhiro Sasaki came in to nail it down. The Mariners' crowd was delirious, clapping in unison, chanting and shouting. The stadium trembled and bounced. Genuine, pennant-fever bedlam. Shades of '95.

Sasaki finished his warm-up pitches and stepped back off the rubber. He dipped his chin toward his chest and closed his eyes. He took two deep, cleansing, concentrating breaths, like he wanted to find his quiet, focused place in the midst of the noise, but like he wanted to soak up the noise, too, let it seep through his skin, shoot through his veins, and come blazing out his arm.

He threw hard and up, and got Jermaine Dye to pop out to first. The next batter, David Justice, singled to right. A slight depression in the volume, but only slight. Then came pinch hitter Greg Myers. He struck out swinging. And when he did, Sasaki round-housed a triumphant fist, the 40,000-plus crowd erupted, the M's started hugging and high-fiving, and Lou Piniella came ambling out of the dugout, clapping in time with the steady, giddy beat of the fans' singing and cheering.

The M's had stayed alive, stayed in it. They are four back with four to play. The Angels are putting up stiff, scared numbers every night. This thing ain't over.

Similar story in LA on Wednesday night (although, once again, there wasn't anything like a full house):

Eric Gagne pitched the eighth against Colorado. He's a closer, meant to protect leads and such, but here he was fighting off the barbarians at the gate with his team down 2-1. Gagne's pitched a whole lot in September. He's no doubt tired and they probably ought to protect his arm a little more than they do, but man, he stands up there on the mound, all baggy pants and sweaty brow, looking bulldog indomitable, doesn't he?

	Gagne wears his heart on his sleeve and his workload on his cap.

He takes off his cap (a sweaty, stained beast Tim Keown wrote a great piece about in ESPN The Magazine recently, by the way), tucks it under his arm and rubs the ball up nice and diabolical like, and then strikes out the side, pumps his fist, and strides off the mound like there was nothing to it -- the kind of yeoman stuff that makes you think (even though you know it isn't) that the game really is all about heart and want-to.

Still, the Dodgers had scored one run in 17 innings coming in to the ninth. They knew the Giants had already won, they knew they were three games back and crashing toward four. They'd hit inning-ending, rally-killing, glove-seeking balls for two straight nights. The dugout was silent and still. Guys had that sad, blank stare working.

Then little Alex Cora (who, by the way, has been playing some very nice defense lately, not that anybody is watching ...) hits a single to right. They move him over with a sacrifice. Up steps Grissom. Here comes a sharply-hit ball right into somebody's glove. But no ... it's a tweaked flair off the end of the bat and its shooting down the right field line and ... I'll be damned ... it's fair. It's a double. Cora scores, the game is tied.

The dugout is alive. Guys are milling and stretching, chatting each other up. Manager Jim Tracy is up off the bench, re-setting his cap to fit snug and serious. The fans, all 763 of them, are whirling like dervishes.

Paul Lo Duca flies to right. The Rockies walk Shawn Green. Runners on first and second, two down. Here comes Brian Jordan. Jordan's driven in 25 runs in September so far, so there is reason for hope, but maybe he's done, maybe he's given all he can to the cause. But no ... there's a ground ball up the middle, there's number 26. Here comes Grissom. Dodgers win.

	Down, but not out, the Dodgers show they still have some life.

Now Jordan's arm is aloft, the players are running onto the field, jumping and crowding each other. And the crowd, which an inning ago looked pathetic, now looks heroic and loyal and on fire. It's a little fire, but it's a fire. Folks are tilting their heads back and howling all Dylan Thomas-like, burning and raving at the close of the day, raging against the dying of the light.

The players and fans in Seattle aren't letting themselves think much about four more wins and four more Angel losses. Dodger players and fans can't be feeling too all-fire confident about suddenly finding an offense and the Giants suddenly losing theirs in the next few days. But big-picture thinking and probability figuring -- that stuff's useless right now. Right now, you stay in the moment. You just want a reason to let loose, a right-this-second excuse to chant and hoot and sing, to revel in Cameron's cap and Sasaki's breath, to slap Jordan's back, tackle Grissom and wrap Gagne up in a bear hug.

Will it last? Will it all be gone on Thursday? Who cares. The thing is now, the thing is the longshot shoulder you pressed against the door of doom, it's the fact that you didn't lose yet. Will it be enough is almost irrelevant, because there's so much good feeling in sticking it to the other guy, toying with the expected script, cocking a snook at old-man death. The old adage is that you have to play to win. Sure, sure, but some nights, you play with, and you play for, the joy of not losing.

Previous entries: Sept. 24 | Sept. 23 | Sept. 22 | Sept. 20 | Sept. 19 | Sept. 18 | Sept. 17 | Sept. 16 | Sept. 15 | Sept. 14 | Sept. 13 | Sept. 12 | Sept. 11 | Sept. 9-10

Eric Neel reviews sports culture in his "Critical Mass" column on Page 2. You can e-mail him at eneel@cox.net.