Dear Mr. Sandman

Last night, I dreamt of good news.

I had settled into my desk chair to check in on my team. A quick jaunt to Boston.com to get the latest -- particualrly to see whether Eric Wilbur had yet to retract his Send In the Clowns column. A click on Sports, another on Red Sox.

The face jumped out at me, surrounded by the blonde curls. The headline was magic.

"Arroyo back home."

Bronson was back. A series of quick trades (I don't recall the other players or teams involved) that planted Arroyo back in the Boston lineup, just in time for the Nomar-spark Wilbur had written would never come this season.

Things were suddenly better. The Sox had defeated Detroit (my mother, father and uncle happily took in the game with the tickets I'd had to give up), Arroyo was to be back on the mound and the team was going to give it another shot.

I cheered out loud. Hallelujah. The fates have smiled again.

When I awoke, I settled into my desk chair to check in on my team. Boston.com. Click on Sports, click on Red Sox.

No Bronson. Instead, a photo of a monkey perched on Craig Hansen's shoulder.

I thought briefly of calling in Red Sox and returning to my dreams.