Red Army baseball was thrown for a loop this week. On Thursday, our coach didn't show up, but in his place we had another demanding visitor -- CBS Television news.


The team had tried its best to prepare for the visit. On Wednesday afternoon some of the older players reluctantly slowed down their usual post-practice ritual of cigarettes and vodka to discuss interview strategy. At the request of a few of the English-speaking players who were likely interview victims, I had written down some usable phrases.


"What does this mean -- 'The Good Lord willing, we'll come out of here with a victory'?" I was asked. "Why 'the Good Lord willing'?"


I shrugged. "I don't know," I said. "Maybe you shouldn't use that one, actually."


"What about, 'You'll have to talk to my agent'?"


I paused and thought. "Forget about that one, too," I said.


In the end we decided to scrap all the preparations. The players were tired and not in the mood to take much of anything very seriously. For some of the players, a visit by a television crew was a sad reminder of how badly things had turned out for Russia baseball.


When Russian baseball first got underway seven years ago, visits by American television crews were an everyday affair. Now, the Soviet Union has collapsed and baseball is not what it was.


Still, some of the players tried to plead their case to the cameras. When the CBS crew burst into the third baseman Sasha Bogatyrev's room -- one of the foulest and most depraved living areas in the team dormitory -- they found Sasha absent but surprised two other players, the pitcher Kirill and the catcher Sal, as they sat on the floor in a pile of laundry and athletic supporters and smoked cigarettes.


I walked in and sat down next to them. The cameras were rolling and a ghoulish white light flooded the room. We small-talked for a few minutes, then our eyes began wandering over Sasha's pornography collection, which was pasted all over the walls.


"Which one is your favorite?" I asked. "I mean, of the pictures."


Kirill shrugged and said nothing. Sal, one of the younger and more bashful players on the team, looked at me. "Well," he said sheepishly. "I like that one." He pointed. Kirill and I and the crew turned around. "But," I said. "Why that one? She's got clothes on -- a bathing suit!"


He shrugged. "Well, the others ..." he began. Then he stopped and smiled hopefully. "Well, you know -- they're prostitutes."


Everyone was silent. The cameras shut off. After this touching moment, there was nothing left to say. Later on, Sal told me: "Well, you know. I don't want the Americans to think I'm immoral."