I'm in the Astros' plush clubhouse at Enron Field -- nice digs, imagine the Plaza Hotel with empty Copenhagen tins -- talking to the players about Roy Oswalt.

Come on. 8-1, lowest ERA of any N.L. rookie, won his last five starts ... act like you know. Roy's starting tonight, so I'm letting him be for now and chatting with his teammates.

Or trying to.

"Roy who?" Billy Wagner, the Astros' fireballing closer, squints at me. "Yo, Jack, who's Roy Oswalt?"

Mike Jackson looks up from a few lockers away. "Dunno," he deadpans, changing the subject and asking why The Magazine doesn't do Chris Webber/Ray Allen-like tandem commercials with baseball players. Octavio Dotel also feigns confusion and tells me I must have the wrong team.

I play along until Wagner finally says, "Oh, alright, whaddya want me to say about that tiny redneck?" Of course, Wagner's from Virginia, so he can get away with poking fun at the 6'0", 170-pound Mississippi native's Southern roots. And as you might imagine, Oswalt's immediate success has made him a frequent clubhouse whipping boy.

Wagner's joking around now, but he's even funnier when he and the rest of the hurlers take the field for an N.L.-only phenomenon -- batting practice. Wagner's a closer, his at-bats are rare, and working on his hitting sits right up there on his to-do list with mastering needlepoint.

Thus, Wagner takes these Ruthian cuts at BP pitcher Jose Cruz's offerings; in reality, the rifle-armed closer has a better shot of throwing the ball out of the park. Still, the other pitchers follow suit, and soon a sort of home run derby grips the batting cage -- I say "sort of" because no balls are actually leaving the park. It's more like an out-of-the-infield derby. Everyone gathers around, P.R. people, journalists, teammates, to witness the spectacle. The tension is so thick, you could cut it with one of the pitcher's bats ... at least then you'd be using it for something.

Scott Elarton steps in and ropes one into shallow left. Wagner blasts one into foul territory behind first base. Meanwhile, Dotel straight-up whiffs on a 75-m.p.h. offering, making Cruz look like The Rocket.

But suddenly, the meat of the order comes up. Ron Villone kicks up some dust on the warning track. Wade Miller jacks one off the left-center wall. And then, without warning, scrawny ol' Dave Mlicki jumps in the box and takes the next offering deep, over the wall in left field a good 315 feet away. Cheers erupt from the fraternity of light hitters.

As Mlicki exits the cage, Dotel extends his bat in what appears to be a low-rent version of the "Bash" Canseco and McGwire used to do back in Oakland. The two gleefully crack Louisville Sluggers. It was the only contact Dotel made all day.