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"You should not have come here tonight."

-- Helen in Troy

5:47 p.m.: "You'll notice the women by the pool are beautiful," the bellhop loading my luggage onto a cart at the Seminole Hard Rock Hotel says.

5:50 p.m.: I'm staying in the Dontrelle Willis Suite, I tell him. It's the exact room Dontrelle lived in for two months last season.

5:51 p.m.: "You'll notice the women by the pool are beautiful," he repeats.

5:52 p.m.: The last time I stayed overnight at the Hard Rock, I slept in my car in the parking garage. But I really wanted to get up to see the Dontrelle room.

5:53 p.m.: That night, I was sure the Hard Rock must have placed a big plaque outside the room to commemorate the honor of having the winningest pitcher in Florida Marlins history as a long-term guest.

5:54 p.m.: But the elevator security guard back then wouldn't let me go up to check. "I haven't seen any plaques," he told me.

5:55 p.m.: I recall that later, while reapplying deodorant in the car, I noticed a bunch of people taking in the view of the pool from their balconies. I'd wished for a big poster-board sign that read, "HEY, CAN YOU GET ME IN THE ELEVATORS SO I CAN FIND THE DONTRELLE WILLIS SUITE?"

5:57 p.m.: It was one of the few times I had left home without poster board. But I vowed to return to the hotel.

5:58 p.m.: "Well, here we are," the bellhop says.

5:58:16 p.m.: No plaque.

6:10 p.m.: That's OK, because I have three suitcases filled with everything but clothes: poster board, scissors, paste and party supplies. I have two copies of Troy, the movie Dontrelle watched over and over for inspiration, even in the locker room before games. I have photos of Dontrelle hitting his first grand slam just last week. I have E-40's My Ghetto Report Card, which includes "Tell Me When To Go," the song Dontrelle likes to hear whenever he steps up to bat.

6:16 p.m.: I'm going to give this room the treatment it deserves. Give Dontrelle the respect he commands.

8:12 p.m.: Having trouble fitting foot-high block letters that spell, "Dontrelle slept here" on the headboard over the king-size bed.

8:31 p.m.: Joanie arrives with a karaoke machine. What's with that? I ask her. "You told me to bring it." Oh, yeah.

8:40 p.m.: Joanie has a Magic Marker, but the fumes are so debilitating she has to go onto the balcony to make a "Dontrelle Willis Suite" sign for the front door.

8:43 p.m.: Joey has arrived. He volunteered to be the party's bartender after I told him he could set up shop in the shower. But now, he's just lazing around, ignoring his duties. "I think you should lose the T so it just reads, 'slep here,' " he says. "It'll save space."

8:46 p.m.: Lose T.

9:06 p.m.: Put Troy on but keep the sound off because we want to be able to play music, and no one wants to listen to Troy. I do like it, however, when Brad Pitt stands outside Apollo's tent after the first battle and says something like, "It's a bad day for princes." That gets me every time.

9:07 p.m.: I am going to tag the room's contents as if Dontrelle were King Tut and these are his treasures. I want the Hard Rock to realize what it has here. My knowledge of Dontrelle's personal life is based on hearsay and innuendo, but the record can be set straight later.

9:12 p.m.: Find 41 points of interest.

9:13 p.m.: Exhibit No. 9 -- The Ironing Board. "In the summer of 2005, Dontrelle Willis used this leopard-print ironing board to press his All-Star uniform. Hard Rock officials say that due to natural wear and tear, many of the items in this room will have to be replaced. The ironing board will not be one of them."

9:14 p.m.: Exhibit No. 11 -- The Telephone. "Dontrelle Willis used this phone every night to call his mother. Before they said goodbye, she would always ask him the same thing: 'Son, why are you living at the Hard Rock?' "

9:15 p.m.: Who wouldn't want to live at the Hard Rock?

9:16 p.m.: I can picture Dontrelle lumbering through the halls, taking a private elevator down to his lucky seat at a poker table, grabbing a midnight ham-and-cheese omelet at the Blue Plate, chowing on steaks as thick as Bibles at Council Oak, watching Miami Heat games on a plasma TV in a poolside cabana or simply lounging in his room with good friends.

9:17 p.m.: Exhibit No. 22 -- The Dining Table. "Dontrelle Willis and Juan Pierre, his best buddy and former teammate, would often sit up late at this table, scrapbooking and talking about their favorite cookies. Dontrelle loves Gauchos."

9:28 p.m.: Guests are calling me. They can't get past security. Joanie begins making runs down to the lobby to get them.

9:30 p.m.: I had asked a friend to act as tour guide, but she has yet to show up. "What was the last thing she said to you?" Joey asks. She said she can't make any promises.

9:30:23 p.m.: "She's not coming," Joey says.

9:37 p.m.: I greet people at the door and start directing them toward the main points of interest. Everyone stays a little too long looking at exhibit No. 1, which is titled, "If Only Dontrelle Willis Played a Musical Instrument."

9:37:08 p.m.: "In the fall of 2006," it reads, "the Hard Rock board of directors discussed preserving this room and moving it to the Hard Rock in Las Vegas, where it would be put on permanent exhibit. At the last minute, the board decided it would not meet the criteria since Dontrelle does not play a musical instrument."

9:42 p.m.: The early arrivals seem to be drawn either to the half-naked Brad Pitt on TV or my notes attached to the screen. Exhibit No. 4: "Dontrelle Willis would use this TV to watch the Troy Special Features DVD, which included a 3-D guide to Greek mythology. When director Wolfgang Petersen found out Dontrelle was such a Troy fanatic, he sent him two special-edition copies that included deleted sex scenes between Brad Pitt and Orlando Bloom. Dontrelle returned them unopened."

9:50 p.m.: People seem to lose interest in the exhibits, and as new guests start filing in, I fail to keep up my tour-guide act.

9:52 p.m.: An unruliness is setting in. One guy I don't know very well has decided to stand directly in front of the sign that reads, "Have your picture taken on Dontrelle's bed: $1 with your camera, $2 with ours. All proceeds will go to Dontrelle Willis' favorite charity."

9:53 p.m.: Could you please move? I ask nicely. "No," he says.

9:57 p.m.: Joey is sitting on Exhibit No. 14, which is located on the left corner of the bed: "Chris Tucker once sat on the edge of this bed telling Dontrelle Willis bedtime stories when he had trouble sleeping during a three-game home stand against the Tampa Bay Devil Rays."

9:58 p.m.: Damn. Now it's all crumpled up.

10:01 p.m.: When I invited people to a private party in the Dontrelle Suite, I envisioned an art-gallery-opening atmosphere, with people enjoying wine and cheese. "If that's the case, you shouldn't be serving Jack Daniel's," Joey says.

10:02 p.m.: The bar never made it into the shower. Instead it's set up a few feet outside it, along the huge Roman bathtub, and includes Marlins-blue Bacardi Zombies and several bottles of wine. The sinks are filled with bottles of Red Stripe.

10:03 p.m.: I just wanted things to be festive.

10:03:14 p.m.: "I know. That's why I brought gift bags and fake money to spell out DW by the entranceway," Joanie says.

10:15 p.m.: People are crowding into the bathroom the way they do in kitchens at house parties. "That shower is made for sex," one girl says. "Look at the way it's set up -- the double shower heads, the jets, the bench, the open view from the bedroom."

10:16 p.m.: No one is having sex in that shower!

10:20 p.m.: "Can't we watch Anchorman?" someone in the bedroom asks. No, we can't!

10:23 p.m.: Look for exhibit tag I had in bathroom. Exhibit No. 2: "Dontrelle Willis once sat on this toilet for 17 hours straight trying to get through Chapter 9 of Cold Mountain."

10:24 p.m.: "Oh, I think I flushed that," someone admits.

10:28 p.m.: People are crowding into the shower for a group photo.

10:30 p.m.: Security girl shows up wearing the Dontrelle Suite Security shirt I had made for her. It's too late. Things are out of control, I tell her.

10:30:17 p.m.: She goes directly to the bar.

10:32 p.m.: Tour guide shows up with no intention of being a tour guide. She goes directly to the bar.

10:40 p.m.: Joanie returns with a new batch of guests. "I invited a bachelorette party up, too," she says. "They have a cake." No penis cakes in the Dontrelle Willis suite!

11:03 p.m.: Some guests are rightfully upset that I had promised to raffle off an autographed baseball yet all I have is exhibit No. 34 perched atop an overturned wineglass with this explanation: "The Marlins organization had promised us an autographed Dontrelle Willis ball, but at the last minute, all that was available was this autographed tee ball from when he was simply known as Donny Willis."

11:10 p.m.: Security girl's boyfriend tells me he's taking the ironing board. That is wrong, I tell him. But I don't know if there's anything I can do about it since your girlfriend is working security.

11:31 p.m.: Notice bathroom has cleared out, save one girl eyeing the robe hanging on the wall. Earlier, I had monogrammed it DW so it could sort of represent Dontrelle's presence.

11:32 p.m.: Girl is wearing robe and flashing people.

11:53 p.m.: "We're out of Red Stripe!" someone screams.

11:54 p.m.: Drunks.

12:10 a.m.: Smell Magic Marker fumes. It's overwhelming. Someone has begun making up exhibits. A toothbrush is on the floor with a note reading, "After a five-game winning streak, Dontrelle started keeping his toothbrush on the floor."

12:11 a.m.: That's asinine.

12:17 a.m.: Real hotel security is at the door. Dontrelle security girl tries to handle it but is getting nowhere until I spin her around and show him that we already have our own security.

12:18 a.m.: I think he appreciates the handwritten "Dontrelle Suite" sign and that we have our own, 4-foot-tall security guard. "You still need to keep the noise down," he insists.

12:24 a.m.: Although I tried to lower the noise level, a second security guard has arrived. This time, security girl sweet-talks him and gives him a gift bag.

12:26 a.m.: "I love to give piggyback rides," a soft voice behind me says. And quicker than you can say, "Trojan horse," people are hopping on the girl's back.

12:30 a.m.: Joanie has that look in her eye that says it's time for karaoke.

12:32 a.m.: I try to explain to everyone that they are not my guests here. I know you don't give a shit about me, I say, but when you're in this room, you are guests of Dontrelle Willis. "Who?" someone asks.

12:32:12 a.m.: That's it.

12:32:15 a.m.: Everybody out!

12:34 a.m.: We head down to Murphy's Law.

1:10 a.m.: I'm not enjoying myself.

2:03 a.m.: I return to the room and feel ashamed. The place is trashed. My intensions were earnest, but I somehow turned the room into a carnival sideshow, a cheap fifth-floor attraction in a first-class casino hotel. I've trivialized Dontrelle's greatness, desecrated his legacy.

2:04 a.m.: I lied to everyone about the tee ball. I bought it at Target. No one paid cash to have a picture taken on the bed, but I wouldn't have given it to charity anyway. I would have used it to get a ham-and-cheese omelet at the Blue Plate.

2:05 a.m.: I suddenly realize this is perhaps the greatest sports story ever told. The suite has become a microcosm of everything that is wrong with sports -- greed, deception, hype, excessive fanaticism -- and the one thing that is right about it. And that thing is Dontrelle Willis.

2:16 a.m.: You know, this room isn't even really a suite. "It's a mini suite with a great view," the bellhop told me. The bed is king-size, but Dontrelle wasn't living like royalty here. He probably even had to cover up the framed picture of Elton John dressed like the Statue of Liberty just so he could sleep.

2:16:40 a.m.: Even Troy is in conflict with Dontrelle's true personality. Achilles was only in it for the fame and glory. Dontrelle is all about pleasing the gods and the fans.

2:17 a.m.: All he does is play. Despite being surrounded by lesser talent and trade rumors, he continues to represent the game solidly. To stand in his shower should be an honor and a privilege.

2:18 a.m.: I feel worst for embellishing about the cookies. You shouldn't lie about a man's favorite cookies.

2:18:09 a.m.: I'm the one who loves Gauchos, not Dontrelle.

2:20 a.m.: Joanie's gift bags include Play-Doh. I make a little Dontrelle so I have someone to talk to.

2:22 a.m.: We don't really talk. I mostly just apologize.

2:24 a.m.: On my way to the balcony, I stumble over a chair that still bears its exhibit tag. No. 22: "Dontrelle Willis often fell asleep in this chair dreaming of Greek myths in 3-D and someday buying land in New Mexico and starting up a sugar-glider farm with Juan Pierre."

2:25 a.m.: At the balcony doors, I stop to read No. 7: "Dontrelle Willis would often gaze out this window, thinking what a harsh world it is out there and wishing all of you could just move into the Hard Rock with him."

2:27 a.m.: I wish that wherever Dontrelle wakes up this morning -- even if he's in Detroit -- it will be a good day for princes.

2:31 a.m.: Rip down "Dontrelle Suite" sign. If the Hard Rock has any sense, it will have a proper plaque made. We'll all come back for the unveiling and put on a more respectable ceremony.

2:41 a.m.: Grab the Donny Willis tee ball and step into the Roman bathtub.

2:43 a.m.: It's like an inverted pitching mound in here. At first, I thought Dontrelle would practice his windup near the mirror in the living room. But he must have done it here, in the center of the tub. This is the only place in the room large enough to handle his lanky, 6-foot-4-inch frame.

2:44 a.m.: My sloppy, slo-mo windup is awkward and exaggerated, and doing it with a lime-green tee ball gives me no sense of grandeur. Even with the Hard Rock's spotlights shining through the windows, I can't cast a shadow anywhere near the magnitude of Dontrelle's. And that's what this is all about, right? As tight as my grip is on this ball, I don't have the stuff. I can spend a night in every king-size bed Dontrelle has ever touched, but the only thing I'll ever truly share with him is humility.

2:44:19 a.m.: Spastically kick my leg out and try to make the most of that moment in life when you realize you are nothing but a fan.

2:44:23 a.m.: Let the ball fly.