he squat middle-aged American tourist stuffed in plaid Bermuda shorts stares at me a second time.

His eyes flash a glimmer of recognition, not to mention bewilderment.

The bewilderment is understandable. After all, Tunisia is thousands of miles away from the nearest major league ballpark.

I respond to his suspected curiosity by slinking away, positioning myself behind the crumbling remains of a Roman Doric column. The plan is to re-immerse myself in the eerie ambience generated by this ancient site. "Study the enduring majesty of Minerva's temple," an inner voice tells me. "Marvel at the massive stone terrace." These hallowed grounds speak to me, as if history is channeling access to my soul.

Nevertheless, my focus is interrupted by a sense of trepidation. I peer over my shoulder and spot my fellow countryman now lurking on the steps of Jupiter's grander temple, conferring with a female colleague. He points a finger in my direction.

"Damn," I mutter. What if he indeed recognizes me? He will want to talk about the game, and the truth is I'm still not prepared to talk about my dismal performance. Time's passage has not erased the sting of embarrassment associated with that one inexplicable episode of wildness. What I need is more time. In a few more weeks I will surely be ready to go back home, and face the harsh criticism with a grin on my face. I will be able to curb my emotions when the pitching coach complains, "You think too much. Maybe a few more months in Triple A will do you some good." In all likelihood I will be able to turn on the radio and laugh at the sports fanatics saying nasty things about me to the talk show host. And when one of them mentions my name and Bill Buckner's in the same sentence I will confidently shout "Wait till next year." But not right now.

How much time has passed so far? An entire month since I made that two out, bases-loaded relief appearance in the final inning of the World Series. A month since I threw four consecutive wild pitches that landed nowhere near the strike zone. One short month since I walked in the winning run with four errant fast balls. Just thirty days since I heard the anguished cries of "Hey rookie, can't you throw a damn strike?" from the hometown crowd. A mere four weeks since I stormed out of the clubhouse--overcome by anger and shame--avoiding all post-game interviews. It's only been a month since I stood at the airline desk, traces of resin still on my fingertips, and told the reservation clerk, "I want a ticket to a faraway place. I'll take the first flight you have available."

During the past four weeks I have traversed the length of this exotic North African country, visiting one archeological site after another, forsaking any news of my performance. My eyes have averted copies of the Herald Tribune and any television hooked up to a satellite dish, while desperate phone messages from my parents, girlfriends and sports agent remain ignored. Minimal time has been spent holed up in hotel rooms or lying on the sand of inviting Mediterranean beachside resorts. Instead, the days have been spent investigating age-old ruins at such places as El Djem, Dougga, and Shietla--ingesting information about these indestructible amphitheaters, villas and temples--each site a lasting legacy to the Roman Empire's supremacy over its traditional rival, Carthage.

What accounts for this new obsession? I have asked myself that question a hundred times in the past four weeks. Is it my college education? The obvious answer lies in my history major background--that certainly explains my bullpen nickname of "Professor"--but the truth is I largely ignored my academic studies at Stanford, successfully assuming I'd be drafted after my junior year. I can't say I ever read anything about this era of ancient history. There is something else, I believe--a particular reason I ended up here in this foreign land. And now I wish the suspected baseball fan spying from a short distance away would choose not to divert my present focus and force me to recall the more recent past.

I look up. My unease grows. The middle-aged American tourist approaches me. I think there a slight chance of escaping his inevitable interrogation, if I can be quick.

I visualize an escape route down a stone pathway, and begin to maneuver by taking two quick steps in reverse, but the gods suddenly intervene. The back of my head bumps up hard against the Roman column. The impact stuns me--a sharp ripple of pain shoots through my brain, leaving me momentarily unable to form a coherent thought. I feel overcome by a strange sensation, akin to that time in Cincinnati when a beaned batter charged the mound and landed a right hook on my jaw.

In the meantime, he advances toward me. I am helpless. There is no escape!

He steps forward, hands on both sides of a bulky black camera draped around his thick neck. The telescopic lens extends down to his beer belly. There is a friendly smile on his face, and I can't help but notice the San Diego Padres logo on his shirt pocket, only partially hidden by the thin leather camera strap. While still about ten feet away he wags his finger at me and blurts out, "Hey. Aren't you.?"

At the same time my right arm jerks up chest high, and I hold out the palm of my hand, as if trying to catch a screaming line drive. "Yes," I interrupt bluntly. "You are indeed addressing the ghost of Hasbrudal, a soldier who fought with Hannibal at Cannae." The remarkable words spill out of my mouth, like baseballs routinely ejected by a pitching machine. I clearly hear the syllables but find myself unable to control their delivery. "Our victorious army eventually suffered defeat at the hands of the Roman legions," the words continue. "Our people were then enslaved, and our unfortunate descendents forced to build this homage to the Roman gods. If you must ask, the bitter taste of failure still torments me, even in death. I bemoan the words 'Delenda est Carthago'."

My wannabe inquisitor replies wide-eyed. "Wow! That's incredible! I thought you were.?"

"Sir, I speak the truth," I continue. "You look at a defeated soul who continues to dwell on the past."

There is a pause as he studies my face. "A case of mistaken identity," he finally mumbles, scratching his chin. "I thought for sure you were someone famous." He then takes a few steps back, shakes his head, and slowly spins around to return to his tour group. As he trudges back, he gazes one more time in my direction. The look on his face indicates he is not entirely convinced of my answer.

I, on the other hand, feel immediate relief. Mention of the four wild pitches is avoided for now, and I begin to experience an increasing degree of control over my physical and mental functions. Gone is the pain. I regain control of my tongue. "What was that all about?" I whisper to myself, sure that these latest syllables were formed by the force of my own electrical impulses.