Jim Leyland is the talk of baseball. It appears he can do no wrong.

He starts Kenny Rogers (aka "The Yankee B.P. Machine") against the Bombers in a huge Game 3 spot and the guy throws a flat-out gem, propelling the Tigers to a massive series upset.

Then he turns around and doesn't start Rogers on normal rest in Game 1 against Oakland, even though his Coliseum record was so good that it looked like somebody just made it up.

And, with Sean Casey out nursing a calf injury, he throws his shortstop in at first base and tabs little used Alexis Gomez in his spot. Gomez rewards the unconventional genius with a homer and four RBI in a crushing victory over the A’s.

Hell, I bet if Leyland walked into a supermarket, he could pick the longest line on purpose, going on a gut hunch that the checker is the quickest in the store.

Leyland is so hot right now, he makes Rain Man look like a guy who’s just on a lucky streak.

Jim Leyland is right now channeling his inner "Opposite George" from Seinfeld. What’s wrong is right, what is up is down, and nothing makes sense – except to him.

But, I'm here to tell everybody that Leyland is still very much mortal. I've seen him make the biggest bonehead move ever.

Florida, 2001 and Leyland is sitting in the dugout watching his starting pitcher flop around like a fish on a boat deck. When it was all said and done, the stat line was gruesome: 4 1/3 innings, 5 hits, 6 runs, 3 walks, 4 strikeouts and 2 hit batters.

What kind of idiot sits back and smokes a butt while watching that disaster?

Leyland did.

Of course, that pitcher was me! And it was at the Cal Ripken Jr., Major League Fantasy Camp in Florida.

Not that I am making excuses for myself, but I was a little bit rusty. I was working on 24 years, 6 months, and 3 days between starts.

The last mound outing I had made was for "Mort’s Bootery" in McLean Little League. I think the opponent was the dreaded "Wayne’s Insulation." I was sharp that afternoon when I was 12. Went a full six innings, and got the win.

I remember how excited I was to get the start in that fantasy game. It was me, on 24 years rest, against a bunch of other middle aged stiffs with too much money to burn and Springsteen’s "Glory Days" ringing in their ears.

I had done very little prep for the camp, due to the fact it was a sponsored radio junket which fell into my lap at almost the last minute. (Good thing too, since the $9,000 fee for the week was a bit out of my impulse spending range.)

I get out there, and start warming up. Feeling the thrill of hurling that little pill downhill into the "Pop!" of a well broken in catcher’s mitt was like pure adrenaline. Our uniforms were truly major league caliber. In the front, it said "Leylands" since he was our team’s skipper. On the back was our name.

Now normally, I'm a very accurate pitcher. I throw strikes, dammit. That’s my game. Get ahead of the hitters. I had a decent hook, but hadn’t tried throwing it for strikes in a quite a while. Like 24 years, 6 months... OK, I think I've made that point.

Well, I guess my excitement led to that somewhat erratic final stat line. And, because I had not spent the proper time long-tossing leading up to the camp, my arm tired quickly.

(Sidebar: When you are doing something like this, you get a real appreciation for what major league pitchers go through. There were at-bats when I got behind, 3-0, battled back with two strikes, had few more pitches fouled off... And then, on like the seventh pitch, I watched my second baseman -- a really nice guy, but a patent attorney by day -- kick away a routine grounder. Start over. Arm throbbing. M*****f*****!!)

All the while, though, there was Leyland, actually "humm babe-ing" me from the dugout, giving me encouragement. It was geeky-cool then, and even more so now.

Of course, every time I get talking about Leyland and the Tigers now, I like to casually drop in a little "Well, when I played for Leyland, we always talked about the importance in baseball of..."

That is guaranteed to get a groan from my colleagues and listeners. If I use it any more, they'll start whipping shoes at my head.

The camp was first class all the way. In fact, they might have undercharged everybody. Not only did future first-ballot Hall of Famer Cal Ripken, Jr., hang out and drink beer with the guys until 2 a.m., we ate lobster for dinner, got treatment from actual MLB trainers and played games at the St. Louis Cardinals actual spring training complex.

It was absurd.

And the six teams were managed by the following guys. Leyland, Buck Showalter, Terry Francona, Mike Hargrove, Cal himself, and Phil Garner.

Hargrove was skippering the Orioles at the time. Cal was still playing.

Garner had just taken the Tigers job, but would go on to lead the Astros to both the LCS and World Series after that.

Showalter had just washed out in Arizona. Bob Brenly was about to take Buck’s D’Backs to a title that fall.

Francona had just endured a nasty dumping in Philly. He’s now part of Boston lore.

Now, it looks like its Leyland’s turn for glory... again.

I can't say me and Jim became fast friends. In fact, he would almost surely not remember me. But, I do remember asking him if he would consider managing again. He scoffed at the notion and talked about how great it was just to be a grandpa to his grandkids.

He seemed genuinely happy. And who could blame him? Leaving me in there to pitch that day was stupid. But, nobody would have second-guessed him but me.

There are no second-guessers now, because he’s been flawless. Count me as one more guy that hopes his hot streak holds for at least four more victories.