COLONIAL HEIGHTS, VA - A man nicknamed Pudge should clean his plate. Even if he's already downed two meals on the day. But that's the last thing Madison baseball coach Mark ``Pudge'' Gjormand can do right now at lunch. He nibbles on a cheeseburger, eating maybe a third of it, polishes a small bowl of macaroni and cheese, downs a few fries and declares his meal finished.

It's 2:20 p.m. and Gjormand's nerves have done what few would believe: eliminated his appetite.

``Don't write that,'' says the barrel-chested Gjormand. ``People won't believe it. Pudge can't finish his burger? Come on, that's fiction.''

On the day of the state title game, that's also reality. But, after a morning of waiting and trying to stay calm, Gjormand's insides are churning. The talk at lunch among the coaches centers on the game. They discuss strategy, winning and about the road they've traveled. With each sentence, Gjormand's adrenaline receives another kick. As if he needed one.

``Oh my God, let's play ball,'' he says. ``Now I'm getting fired up.''

But there's nothing he can do. Gjormand, and the Warhawks, still have more than four hours to wait. He'll just have to act calm. He'll have to find a way to make time fly on a day where the clock seemingly ticks slower than usual.

``It feels like time is standing still,'' an assistant coach says later.

The day of a state title game provides quite a ride, from early morning peace to midday anxiety. Or so it goes for the coaches. The kids? They spend the day playing Whiffle Ball, Nintendo and PlayStation 2 and watching movies. The game sometimes pops up in conversation - when they weren't too busy with something else.

In the end, though, it'll be a day Gjormand, and Madison, will never forget. The Warhawks capped off a perfect season with a 2-1 win over J.R. Tucker Saturday night, winning their first state championship since 1971. A diary of their day reveals a team exuding confidence and calm. But that diary also oozes emotion, from players thinking about wearing a Madison jersey for the last time to the father of the game's hero to the Warhawks last moments together as a team at the prom later that night.

9:50 a.m.
Gjormand's day actually began at 6:15 a.m., thoughts of the game serving as his alarm clock. He wondered what it would feel like to win, then planned out how the day should go. After 30 minutes of this, he grabbed the keys to his brother Dave's jeep and went for an hour-long ride, in search of a 24-ounce coffee, a newspaper and peace of mind. He got all three. Later, he swam alone in the hotel's indoor pool.

``It was awesome,'' Gjormand says of his morning. He's now seated at Burger King with his brother, eating breakfast about two hours after munching on two small pancakes. This meal involves a ham and cheese croissant, tater tots and a Dr Pepper. It turns out to be the breakfast of champions.

``I'm on adrenaline right now,'' he says. ``In baseball I never sleep good in the season. Once it's over, win or lose tonight, the weight of the world is off my shoulders and then it will catch up with me. I'll still be wired, but next week I'm heading to the beach to spend time with my kids and family. It's hard because you're not as good a dad during the season.

``It's hard, but when you wake up and you're fired up and the adrenaline's going ... right now I'm wired.''

No kidding. Gjormand spends most of the next 20 minutes talking baseball, from coaches who have helped him to unhappy parents - one of whom wrote a note to principal Mark Merrell this spring. Merrell's response: You're barking up the wrong tree; he's my guy.

Gjormand talks about coaches who have influenced him, from former Flint Hill basketball coach Win Palmer to Centreville football coach Mike Skinner (whose son, Gerard, is an assistant to Gjormand). There's also former Marshall baseball coach Dean Sissler, Oakton baseball coach Scott Rowland, Oakton football coach Pete Bendorf and ex-football coach Neal Callahan. All played a role in molding Gjormand's philosophy. Each is on his mind the morning of his biggest day as a coach.

Numerous area coaches e-mailed him during the week, wishing him luck. And Gjormand says he's touched by seeing so many of his ex-players in Richmond for the weekend. His brother and a volunteer assistant, Walter Lanesman, share his room.

``I'm about relationships,'' he says. ``If we win a state title, great. But the fact that everyone is down here...''

And the fact that Madison is undefeated enters his thoughts, too. He knows First Colonial went 28-0 in 1993. He knows Madison might go 29-0.

``We'll be the greatest team in the state if we win tonight,'' he says. ``But I'll never tell my kids that today. If you talk to B.T. [Good] and J.J. [Hollenbeck], at the beginning of the year we were outside the batting cage and they said, `We want to be the greatest team to ever play high school baseball.' If we're 29-0, we can argue that. Look at the numbers. But we've got to finish it tonight.''

Breakfast is done, but, before heading back, Gjormand heads to a local pharmacy to pick up a card for his wife, Beth. Just to say thanks for allowing him to chase a dream.

``It's not fun being a coach's wife,'' he says.

11:32 a.m.
The entire team, most of whom only awakened an hour ago, and coaching staff gathers in Gjormand's hotel suite, cramming every corner. They go over a small scouting report on Tucker, but they worry more about themselves than the Tigers.

And they learn from tonight's starting pitcher, Hollenbeck, what jerseys they'll wear - pitchers choose the uniforms for the day. He chooses a black jersey with black hats and their white pants with a red stripe down the side. It's a different mix and leaves some players confused. When junior Andrew Baird, nicknamed the Preacher for his oratory skills, leaves the room he tells Gjormand, ``Coach, I don't know what J.J. said, but I'll figure it out.''

Gjormand lays out the day's itinerary and lets them free for the next two hours. Before they leave he tells them they'll try to make it back for prom that night. ``But if you just want to roll around on our field, we'll do that. I don't care. Let's win!''

12:41 p.m.
Hollenbeck is trying to get a little sleep, wrapping himself in a blanket on his bed. If he were at home, he would try to stay active, maybe go jogging. Here, that's difficult unless it involves video games. He woke up too late to jog and, besides, he had laundry to do. So he did that and listened to some Eminem on roommate Gabe Orsinger's boom box. Still, Hollenbeck actually dozes for a couple minutes until a visitor intrudes.

But Hollenbeck also was thinking about what it would be like to wear a Madison uniform for the last time. The 11 seniors will scatter to various schools next fall, with Hollenbeck and Good headed to Virginia Military Institute to play. And he thought about playing in front of familiar faces, some who have watched him for 10 years or more, for the last time. His third grade teacher showed up at the state semifinals, as did two parents of former Little League teammates. ``That was cool," he said.

``And I was thinking about the legacy we would leave behind,'' he says. ``If we happen to lose would we still be one of the better teams in the history of Virginia. But if we did win, then a million things race through your mind. I only thought about losing for a split second and that was quickly dismissed. We're not going to lose. We've worked too hard for this.''

Hollenbeck likes being the focal point on the mound, even if he's throwing on three days rest. He threw 126 pitches in a 7-6 win over Hickory on Tuesday and figures he's good for another 110 (he would throw 99).

But is he nervous?

``Naaah,'' he says.

He's not acting. An hour earlier, after the team meeting, Hollenbeck returned to Gjormand's room for an individual meeting. While eating pizza, Hollenbeck asked, ``What time is the game?''

Across the hall, Good and senior Allan Wimmer are trying to get the Nintendo game to work. But someone tripped over the cords and now it's on the outs. That means no games of Contra. In another room, the big hit is a FIFA game on PlayStation 2, a game that drew some complaints because of the cheering the previous night.

But the Nintendo break gives Wimmer and Good a free moment to reflect on tonight's game. When Good woke up, his first thought was, ``I wish it was 7 o'clock tonight.'' Wimmer's first thought was: ``Who's playing Nintendo?''

``Our team is a bunch of goof-offs,'' Wimmer says. ``It's like in the dugout yesterday. Half the kids were looking in the stands, checking out the girls. But we're still in the game. ... This whole week feels like a blur. It didn't feel like a state tournament until yesterday when we were sitting in the stadium. I haven't thought much about us going undefeated.''

``It's just another game,'' Good says, making that statement sound convincing as he shrugs his shoulders.

They're not surprised to see Tucker in the final. The Tigers upset Kellam in the semifinals, eliminating the team that many said had the most talent in the state. Madison won't overlook Tucker and its 19-7 record.

``That's what Kellam did,'' Wimmer says. ``Their parents were telling our parents last night, `Madison should watch out because they'll get the big lefty [Justin Jones].' But you have to beat the team you play first. Osbourn did the same thing and they lost [in the quarterfinals]. We haven't done that all year.''

In the hallway, sophomore third baseman Johnny Ayers emerges from a room where nine of his teammates are watching Scary Movie 2, which he termed a ``classic.'' Like the others, Ayers hasn't let the pressure bother him.

``I know I'm as good as anyone on this team,'' he says. ``The main thing is just to stay relaxed.''

Though he didn't want to think about it, he's also glad he didn't follow through on a fleeting desire not to play baseball this season. Too many games played over the summer led to some burnout. But players such as Good, and Ayers' father, convinced - or told - him to play.

``Baseball used to be my favorite sport,'' said Ayers, also a varsity basketball player. ``But last summer made it more of a job. But I'm glad I played because this is a whole lot of fun.''

1:43 p.m.
When Madison walks into the Cracker Barrel for lunch, three workers immediately ask: ``Did you win last night?'' They actually seem happy when they hear the answer. Of course it means more business as the Warhawks bring a party of 32. But they're quickly seated.

``Always take care of the waitresses,'' Gjormand whispers.

The players sit together at several tables, but most of the coaches gather at one table. The topic is 90 percent about tonight's game: ``They're a young team, we can't lose to a young team,'' Gjormand says. And he recalls how former Marshall coach Dean Sissler buried the state runner-up trophy deep in his locker after a late 1980s loss in the final.

``If it doesn't work out, I'm not going to bury the trophy,'' Gjormand says.

The kids play checkers, discuss girls and whatever else teen-age boys like to talk about. The game is omnipresent, but it's not on the tip of their tongues. Senior first baseman Gabe Orsinger was the opposite of his coach. He had no problem digesting his three pancakes and two eggs.

``I'm not nervous at all,'' said Orsinger, mirroring the team's mood. ``The game comes up every once in a while. It's pretty unbelievable, playing in a state tournament. It's a great feeling, but we're not getting worried or feeling anything yet.''

On the bus ride back to the hotel, the players talk and laugh. Gjormand, in between jokes of how much he jogged in the morning, looks for positive signs. And when the left turn signal changes to green as the bus approaches, Gjormand, after singing along to ``My Girl'' says, ``Everything's going right today.''

2:55 p.m.
Madison has an hour to kill before a team meeting. Tyler Garner, B.T. Good and Orsinger choose to spend 10 of those minutes playing Whiffle Ball.

Garner constantly handcuffs Good, forcing weak grounders. Garner boasts just a little, telling Good, a four-year varsity member, ``You've got nothing on me, B.T.''

Orsinger chimes in, ``That was a pathetic performance.''

3:20 p.m.
Senior second baseman Fred Haden III is watching ESPN break down the upcoming Mike Tyson vs. Lennox Lewis bout.

``I think Tyson will win,'' Haden says. ``He's crazy. He goes into the ring and tries to kill people.''

But that's not all that's on his mind. He's been bothered by a sore shoulder all tournament, preventing him from hitting the way he had all season. Once, it started bothering him just because he reached for a grounder. The shoulder aches, but Haden will play.

And he's thought about what it would feel like to win. It's a short answer.

``Awesome,'' he says.

One thing he's not worried about is tonight's prom.

``I could care less about it,'' he says. ``A couple of girls are upset because they want us there. But we'll catch the end of it. And in my eyes it's not as big as what we're doing here. This is more important.''

3:55 p.m.
Dressed and ready to leave, the players file into a meeting room at the hotel. They're here to listen once more to a scouting report and then get fired up in a very teen-age boy kind of way.

``They're a team that early in the season their coaches thought was terrible,'' Gjormand tells his players. ``It's a little brother thing. You've got to beat your little brother down. If we apply pressure, they will fade. Don't be afraid to make mistakes and have a good time. Third base is their weak link and the kid on the hill throws between 83 and 85 miles an hour. He competes; he's a tough kid.''

Then comes the real message, the one the players like to hear. Especially on prom night.

``Chicks dig men in uniform,'' Gjormand tells his players. ``This is not pressure, this is fun.''

The coaches leave, giving the players a chance to be alone for the last time together. They choose to sing. The lyrics are, um, about a rather physical relationship. No matter, it's all about unity and every player loudly sings along, with Hollenbeck sitting on a table in the back, smiling and kicking his legs forward and back, nary a care in the world for a kid about to pitch the biggest game of his life.

After the song, Gjormand re-enters, dances as only a man called Pudge can - more shaking, less gyration - and watches as Baird hops over the table and does his own routine, ending up on the floor, mimicing a breakdancer. Then they gather in a circle, clasp hands up high and yell and scream and emerge ready to play. Less than three hours to go.

4:27 p.m.
The bus ride to Shepherd Stadium is uneventful. The players are quiet, some listening to music on headphones; others closing their eyes, resting their heads up against the window. And Gjormand is finally relaxed, singing into his microphone once more, ``It's a great day to be alive . . .!'' His singing ends after a minute and more Motown music fills the bus, much to his pleasure.

As the players enter the stadium, through an entrance just behind home plate, they're greeted by a table holding two trophies. One big and one small. One represents perfection, the other dejection. At least for Madison.

``I want the big one,'' Gjormand says.

Finally in his element, Gjormand can breathe easier. Maybe he could even down a burger now - if there were time.

``When I walked through the gates,'' Gjormand says, ``I thought, `This is great.' This is relaxing.''

In the stands, Fred Haden, Jr., watches Madison warm up while reminiscing about where many of these kids started. Seven years ago he helped organize the Vienna Mustangs, a traveling team separate from the local Babe Ruth League. It rubbed some locals the wrong way. Haden, and Gjormand say they wouldn't have reached this day without such a break.

The Mustangs always played up an age group, meaning most of the seniors never faced their own age group until this spring.

``This model is something I would have liked when I was that age,'' Haden says. ``It was traumatic for local teams, but it's required for the more talented teams. All their common experiences contribute to where they are today.''

6:53 p.m.
Hollenbeck throws his last fastball in warmups, then does what he's done every game. He turns to pitching coach, Justin Counts, and says, ``We're good.'' To which Counts, on cue, replies, ``Let's go.''

They bump fists and Hollenbeck says, ``Shut 'em down.'' And they walk to the dugout in silence.

8:15 p.m.
After Tucker's Chase Farmer touched home plate, tying the game at 1 in the fifth inning, Madison appealed, saying he missed third base. The umpires disagreed. But Tucker coach William Hicks turned to Counts, inching out of the dugout and told him, ``You guys were right.''

Farmer's homer provided Tucker with all the momentum, but that didn't faze Hollenbeck, he of the shaved head and steel nerves. When he arrived in the dugout, Hollenbeck stared at his teammates and announced, ``A solo home run is not going to beat us.''

8:52 p.m.
With two outs and runners on first and second in the bottom of the seventh of a tied game, Madison senior Joe Lewin, who visualized this moment earlier in the day, walks to the plate. Before he gets there, Gjormand stops him and asks if he has one more hit left in him.

``Coach,'' Lewin says, ``I've been waiting for this moment my whole life.''

``Good answer!'' Gjormand shouts, sending Lewin on his way.

Lewin doesn't disappoint, ripping a first-pitch fastball to deep center field, scoring Baird with the winning run. Teammates mob both players and Gjormand drops to his stomach, leaving one person to wonder if he'd had a heart attack. The typical scene follows: lots of pictures, lots of pats on the back and lots of praise.

Thirty minutes later, Gjormand grabs a crinkled piece of tiny blue paper, hidden in his back pocket. On it, his 3-year-old daughter Samantha has written, ``Good luck daddy, win every game.'' Or at least that's the translation by her daddy, well-versed in the language of scribbled lines. Gjormand considers it a lucky piece of paper: he was clutching it during Lewin's at-bat.

For Gjormand, now's the time to revel in family. He hugs his wife and parents and brother. He carries his daughter and son around. And Gjormand thinks of someone he wishes were here: his grandmother. She died this past fall and not a day passes when he doesn't talk to her in his mind. His grandmother lived with him growing up and she was the first family member to pass. The pain lingers, even on a night like this.

``We were extremely close,'' he says, his eyes misting just a bit. ``Every night during the National Anthem, I think she's looking out for me. It's tough, but I thanked her every day this year. I thank the Lord. He's got her under his wing, but he let her look out for us this year.

That's the only way to explain it. It may be corny, but that's the way it is.''

Then there's assistant activities director Billy Emerson, trying to duck out quietly. Sort of. At a school pep rally Thursday, he promised to get a haircut like Hollenbeck should Madison win. Which means no hair at all. So Emerson, thrilled to watch his alma mater win, spent a few minutes looking over his shoulder.

``They're trying to get the clippers off the bus,'' he says.

Meanwhile, proud papa Joe Lewin puffs on a cigar near the dugout as Gjormand's wife, a trainer at Flint Hill, wraps his left calf. Seems Lewin popped a calf muscle - ``It feels like it blew up,'' he says - racing from behind the dugout onto the field. That didn't prevent the teary-eyed Lewin from finding his son, planting a kiss on his cheek and hugging him tight as his wife says, ``I'm still shaking!''

As he's getting wrapped, Lewin chats on his cell phone, setting the seventh-inning scene, smiling and glowing as if his son had just been born. Father's Day came a week early this year. It'll last forever.

``And then guess who came to the plate,'' Lewin told the caller.

11:50 p.m.
Madison's bus pulls up to the Galleria at Lafayette Center, site of the school's prom, which is nearly over. But the Warhawks insisted on attending, even if they hadn't showered and changed clothes yet. Maybe that's why Hollenbeck chose black jerseys: it looks more formal.

The players, nervously awaiting the school's reception, linger in a lobby area, waiting to be introduced as the promgoers watch the crowning of the King and Queen. Finally, principal Mark Merrell tells the crowd, ``We've got a surprise for you.'' And then the players walk down the double-decker staircase, winding into view. When they do, the applause builds, lasting for a good minute. Maybe more. The music blares, with the students singing along: You Shook Me All Night Long by AC/DC followed by We Are The Champions by Queen followed by goosebumps all around. And one helluva memory.

Hollenbeck later said it's only the second time in his life he's gotten goosebumps. He declines to reveal the first time.

He's not alone in his feeling. That's what state titles do for kids, even those who mostly sat the bench. The game touched their lives in an unalterable way, providing a moment no one can steal or diminish. It's the power of teamwork. And it's why Madison succeeded. Every player knew his role and filled it well.

Senior utility player David MacKenzie batted 15 times this season, serving mostly as a defensive player or courtesy runner (stealing 18 bases this season; he ran once for Hollenbeck in the final and scored the tying run in the semifinals). He could have played more at another school; he wouldn't have won a state title. He'll take the hardware. So, too, would Tyler Garner, who will play at Messiah College next year. He batted .500, but also was limited to courtesy running. He, too, celebrated like mad.

``I feel as big a part of this as J.J. or Joey Lewin,'' MacKenzie says.

Which is why, on the bus ride from the prom back to the school around 12:30 a.m., he made his way to Gjormand, seated in the front. There, MacKenzie said what everyone else on that bus was thinking. And will think for quite some time.

``This,'' MacKenzie told him, ``is the greatest day of my life.''