Three is a magic baseball number. It was worn by Babe Ruth and a handful of other legends, including titanic homer-hitting Harmon Killebrew, and Bill Terry, the Giants' magnificent first baseman and championship manager. Three on the back of a jersey is an instant reminder of transcendental greatness.

A different kind of stardom is on display in tonight's game with the league-leading Seattle Mariners. Journalists swarm about the field for a glimpse of Ichiro Suzuki, a leadoff batter imported from Japan. Defying an angry coach--"Hey! We're stretching here!" he yells at the throng--an intrepid cameraman kneels next to Suzuki to capture his every contortion on film.

Suzuki wears number 51. Defying convention (in two countries), he insists on having his first name, "Ichiro," appear across his back. Thankfully, the rest of the league, including Barry Bonds, Chipper Jones and Trot Nixon, have yet to follow suit.

A fabled batting champion in Japan, he now leads the American league in hits. Suzuki, it seems, is not just adored by his fellow Japanese, but by the American press as well. Hailing his first-ever visit to Dodger Stadium, the Los Angeles Times, ignoring the 50-year U.S.-Japan defense treaty, trillions of dollars of transpacific trade, and Hideo Nomo, credits him with somehow ending World War II-era anti-Japanese tension.

In contrast, no cameras follow Dodger Paul LoDuca. No earthshaking consequences are ascribed to his very presence. He laughs off the comparison. "Ichiro is a national icon," he says. "I'm a hero to maybe five people in Kansas."

Like Suzuki, he's in his first full big league season after a stellar career in the minors (Suzuki was in the equivalent, the Japanese majors). Unlike his more famous counterpart, he was all but ignored by a myopic Dodger management infatuated with players who never panned out.

"We had Angel Pena at catcher," recalls Dodger announcer Vin Scully, "and some were saying he would be another Roy Campanella." But the Dodger catching corps fell apart, and injuries decimated the team's infielders. Suddenly LoDuca had a chance to play regularly.

In many ways, he's outplayed Suzuki. As of game time, he had a higher batting average, more home runs and runs batted in, and a Ruthian .633 slugging percentage, 40 percent higher than the light-hitting Suzuki. LoDuca plays more demanding positions, including catcher. Suzuki largely rests between at bats in spacious right field.

Boosted by Internet ballots from Japan, Ichiro was the top vote getter for the recent all-star game. LoDuca didn't make the team.

"It's the media," admits Scully, "but understandable. Suzuki came from Japan and did well." That the Mariners had to shell out big bucks just to win the right to negotiate with the Japanese star also didn't hurt his visibility. Lots of people have incentives to justify Suzuki's huge payout.

Still, it seems disquieting to see how media-flamed passions overwhelm more compelling realities. Players like LoDuca are pure baseball. They work hard and deal gracefully with what can be years of unfair indifference. They don't wear "Paul" on their uniforms. Even hard-bitten stadium ushers marvel at their humility. When opportunities finally appear, if they ever do, they do their best. Some, like LoDuca, shine.

"I like being the underdog," he says. "That way, you can surprise people."

He's done that. "Right now," muses Porter as he heads to his broadcast booth, "LoDuca's the best story we've got."

The press box is far too crowded with visiting media. I go down to the lower level. An usher just out of high school lets me sit in an empty seat.

Ichiro-worshipping Japanese fans are everywhere. I get ornery. "Stick it in his ear," I murmur as Suzuki comes up against the Dodgers' famously grumpy pitcher, Kevin Brown. I find myself hoping the Dodgers crush the swaggering Mariners, the team with baseball's best record to date.

That doesn't happen. Suzuki drills a Brown fastball into the right field pavilion for a homer. He later picks up two more singles. LoDuca gets one of the Dodgers' paltry four hits, but grounds into the game-ending double play. It's a 13-0 Mariner cakewalk.

Sometimes the game doesn't turn out the way we want. But I love that, amid sometimes dreadful hype, it still turns out a Paul LoDuca.