'It helps to have an elastic groin.

Because at first base the name of the game is s-t-r-e-t-c-h.

How far you can do the splits may be the difference between a ground ball being beaten out for a hit or one of those bang-bang, got-him-by-a-nose-hair outs.

You will also discover to your annoyance that the throws to you are sometimes one-hop bullets requiring a theatrical, sweeping snare. Fortunately, today's first-base gloves are roughly the size of Rhode Island and can flag down a large appliance. Nevertheless, feel free to add flourishes and curlicues to your performance in the never-ending struggle for appreciation of Position No. 3.

To review, then, first base requires legs that telescope and a cobra-quick glove hand. You will also, from time to time, have to stagger around in small circles pursuing a pop foul that has disappeared behind the sun. The opponents will make mocking noises at your obvious discomfort. Try not to let on how damnably difficult this really is.

Position No. 3, you see, is the most misunderstood of them all. To wit:

"We need Stretch's bat. But he's a butcher in the field. Where can we hide him?"

"First. All he has to do is catch the ball. How hard is that?"

And so the myth is passed along. Where is the love for Position No. 3?

The most inventive nickname for a No. 3 was affixed to Dick Stuart: Dr. Strangeglove. Yet, in a 10-season, six-team career, his fielding average was actually .982, not Gold Glove-worthy to be sure, but nowhere near as disastrous as his reputation.

And not that far behind Willie "Stretch" McCovey's .987, either. McCovey was a menacing figure - he was 6-foot-4 but seemed to loom much larger, and in that regard was reminiscent of the greatest first baseman of them all, Lou Gehrig.

Combined, Stretch and the Iron Horse hit 1,014 home runs and drove in 2,550 runs. Gehrig also averaged a robust .340 lifetime. And, of course, there was also that little matter of The Streak.

One of the perks of Position No. 3 is that as a way station on the base paths, it is the ideal setting for conversational conviviality. First sackers tend to be regular Chatty Kathys who keep up a continuous dialogue, and if you're a runner who allows himself to get caught up in the talk and neglect to pay attention, well . . . zap! . . . picked off.

"You also get to come in for all those conferences on the mound," said John Kruk, the one-time blithe spirit of the Phillies. "I always liked listening in, though to tell you the truth you never learned a whole lot."

It was at first base that another Phillie, Dick Allen, made his mark - in more ways than one.

Horrendously strong and enormously talented, Allen wielded a bat the size of a telephone pole. He clubbed 351 homers in his career, most of them caught by the man in the moon.

But he fell from favor among the Phillies fans, who perceived him to fall short of expectations - theirs, not his. So to while away his time, Allen took to using his cleats to scrawl messages in the dirt cutout around first.

These were not love letters in the sand, however. And to prove he had caught the Philadelphia spirit, he printed this:

Boo.