Even I could tell that something was desperately wrong.

I arrived at the Philadelphia Phillies new Networks Field in St. Petersburg a few minutes before their scheduled game with the Florida Marlins in my never-ending quest for more and more baseball. A dozen Red Sox games were not enough. But there were parking spaces available and no lines at the ticket window. Even the Phillies don’t draw this poorly. When I saw the gates locked, my suspicions rose and then were confirmed by the pleasant ticket lady.

“They are playing at Progress Energy Park … the Devil Rays’ stadium,” she said.

If there is one thing I hate, it is arriving late to a baseball game. Last week in Fort Myers, one family (naturally they sat in my row) arrived in the fourth inning (FOURTH INNING!) in a game pitched by Pedro Martinez (PEDRO MARTINEZ!). As soon as they sat down, the kids left for a few more innings to spend a few hundred dollars at the concession stand and souvenir shop.

We dubbed them the Late Family.

Good thing I didn’t have my service revolver.

The saintly ticket woman gave me directions to get back on Route 19 to Route 275 and Exit 9.

As I roared off into the Florida sunshine, I raced through a yellow light and skidded onto Route 19, under heavy construction like most of the Tampa-St Petersburg area – and the rest of the state. It was then, and only then, that I realized she didn’t say north or south on Route 19.

I had the ballgame, which had already started, on the radio when I realized I was speeding in the wrong direction.

After an ill-advised U-turn in traffic, I sped off on Route 19 south, listening to the game, now in the second inning.

I hit heavy traffic.

Third inning.

I finally found Route 275. The first intersection was Exit 21. I had a long way to go to Exit 9. I pretended the Toyota Tundra was a firetruck and passed every car on the road, legally and illegally.

Exit 20

Exit 19.

Exit 18.

Then I found myself on the toll bridge leading out of St. Petersburg to points south.

There was no exit. I drove over the 5-mile bridge and pulled over at the first stop to check the map. On the radio, the fourth inning was starting and I was on the wrong side of town, swearing at the radio. Not a pretty sight. It was much too late for the game. I couldn’t be as bad as the Late Family.

I admitted defeat and headed back to Spring Hill to complete the 224.5-mile trip to nowhere. Amazingly, on the toll highway, I was passed by a huge cement truck driven by none other than Mark Preston, my genial host. He got on his cell phone and asked innocently, “How was the bal game?”

I practiced my swearing technique on him for a while, much to his amusement.

Mark knows every road and highway in Florida. “Oh, they changed those exit numbers a few years ago,” he laughed. He could hardly keep that 18-wheel cement truck on the road. “You drove right by the stadium.”

I hated that ticket lady.

But the day wasn’t a total loss. I went back to Mark’s house and swimming pool.

The game ended on the radio just as I drove into Cool Breeze Court, a suitable name for a Florida retreat, if there ever was one.

I languished in Mark’s pool and decided it wasn’t all bad. I did drive 224.5 miles for nothing. But I saved the $5 parking fee. I saved the $19 ticket price.

I certainly beat the ballgame traffic.

(If you care, the Phils won, 5-4.)

Send complaints and compliments to Emmet Meara at emmetmeara@man.com.