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ON A WARM FEBRUARY EVENING in Arizona, George Brett, the last batter to wrestle with .400 through the heat of a full summer, stands in a hotel lobby fighting off mosquitoes and middle-aged men who wish they were him.
Brett knows this crowd. Brett is surrounded by fantasy baseball players, men who paid a few grand to put on Kansas City Royals uniforms, pull principal muscles and, most of all, hover around George Brett. They stand too close. Brett tells baseball stories. He tells drinking stories.
Then, he announces the secret of hitting a baseball.
"You gotta think about nothin'," he says.
The men laugh. But George Brett is quite ...