There are three things you can do in a baseball game. You can win, or you can lose, or it can rain.

-- Casey Stengel

I made my debut on a professional baseball field last weekend.

I got summoned out of the stands when things looked dark for the home team.

Later, I called everyone I knew on the drive home.

And why not?

It's not every night you go to watch a ball game and end up rolling out the tarp during a thunderstorm to keep the field dry.

But let me begin at the beginning.

I was in Columbus, Ga., for a weekend reunion with my wife's family. After dutifully spending several hours with the in-laws, I was allowed the night off.

I checked the newspaper and found out that the Columbus Catfish -- Sally League rivals of our hometown GreenJackets -- were playing the Charleston RiverDogs.

I drove to their ballpark downtown on the river, settled in along the first-base line and began to watch my game.

I also began to watch the clouds gathering behind third base. I saw the lightning. I listened to faint sounds of thunder. I felt the wind change, then chill. I was about to walk back under the grandstand when I noticed a small group of Catfish employees gathering in front of me and looking at the approaching storm.

There were two or three guys who looked as though they knew what to do with the big tarp rolled against the fence.

There were four or five guys who looked as though they might have come for Fraternity Night the week before but forgot to leave. And there were several smallish women from the ticket booths. I figured when you had to get the women out of the ticket booths, you were in trouble.

"Do you need a hand?" I asked one of them.

"Sure," she said. "Have you ever done this before?"

"Lots of times," I lied.

That's how I got on the field.

That's when I found out rolling out the tarp isn't what you think it is. For one thing, it's not your decision. Despite an increasingly heavy downpour, the umpire was reluctant to call the game.

It rained for about 10 minutes -- hard and soaking, but the man behind the plate kept calling pitches and acting as though nothing was happening.

I was drenched. It's like standing fully clothed in a bathroom shower for 10 minutes. Finally the umpire threw his arms up and walked out on the field, waving to the players. Then he pointed to us.

Now!

We pried the big roll of canvas wrapped around a long barrel-like pipe away from the wall. Then we lined up behind it and began pushing toward center field. This is very hard. You are crouched and pushing and running and trying not to slip. I began to worry about what might happen if my momentum catapulted me over the roll, which would then crush over me and cover my corpse somewhere near second base.

That didn't happen, but we did finish rolling the tarp. Then we ran around to one of its sides, picked up a corner, then ran together toward third base.

This was even harder. The canvas is heavy, the falling rain adds increasing weight and your fingernails get bent back as you pull. Your legs strain. Your back aches. You wheeze with exertion.

And you're soaking wet.

But when you finally pull your piece of canvas across the third-base line and turn around, you see that the infield is miraculously covered.

The crowd began to cheer, and I tipped my cap just like Chipper Jones.

It all took about two minutes. We left the field slowly. No rush; we couldn't get any wetter. From a dry spot beneath a stadium overhang, I found out that the grounds crew is rewarded with free beer, which I declined.

I had already tasted enough glory for one night.