Monday is Martin Luther King Day. King had a dream which inspired millions. My dreams, on the other hand, make no sense at all. Can anyone make sense out of this one I had last night?

I was on a train headed due east out of Berlin. I expect the trip to be long and boring, but occasionally, in the mountainous regions, the track twists and turns and even goes upside-down like a roller-coaster. I marvel at the quality of German engineering.

The land turns flat again, and to avoid boredom, I turn on a TV. They're showing the final meeting of the 2004 season between the Giants and Padres, in San Diego. John Madden is doing the color, and Steve Young, wearing his full 49er uniform (shoulder pads and all), is a guest commentator.

The Giants are leading in the bottom of the ninth, but the Padres have loaded the bases. With two outs, Matt Williams, somehow unretired, is sent in to pinch hit. He hits low line drive to the opposite field, barely fair over the low right field fence. Grand slam! The Padres win! The Padres clinch the NL West! The Giants, dejected, are left only with the slim hope that they can pass the Cubs for the wild card spot.

I look out over the German landscape rushing past the window of my seat on the train. I wonder if I can see any fireworks from the celebrations in San Diego. Instead, something begins to emerge from the clouds like ghostly angels: the giant floating heads of Julie Andrews, Florence Henderson, and Angela Lansbury, singing songs of glorious celebration. God, it occurs to me, must be a Padres fan.