I won't die. I want to be there the day Ozzie is drummed out of the game. I want to laugh as I watch him haul his derelict, drunken self from street corner to street corner, dreaming of the days when he had more money than he knew what to do with, before the Venezuelan microbrewery fiasco, before the endless stream of American blondes and barbiturates, before the Dominican gypsies took everything he had hooked and crooked so long to acquire.