Slugger Sam stepped out of the on-deck circle and headed towards the batter's box. It was every batter's dream situation: two outs, bottom of the ninth, bases loaded. But his body ached, as it often did late in the game. And the crowd jeered as he approached home plate and tapped some clay clumps out of his cleats.

"You're a bum, Sam!" one voice called. "My grandmother can hit better than you!"

"When are you going to retire?" cried another heckler. "You should've quit years ago."

Sam didn't know which hurt more: the fact that this was a home game, or that they might be right. In any event, he didn't look back toward the bleachers. He eyed the pitcher. Maybe this was his last year. Maybe this was his last game. In fact, this could very well be his last time up at the plate.

The first pitch came low and inside for Ball One.

"So," the catcher started, "guess they're trying to run you out of town, huh?"

Sam looked down at the masked pitch-snagger. He didn't know him, but the loopy moustache protruded through the mask.

"Are you ready for retirement?" the catcher continued. "I've seen some great ballplayers live lean in their twilight because they did not prepare for their financial well-being."

Sam nodded. He knew the horror stories all too well, of legendary athletes who literally had to hitchhike to their Hall of Fame inductions. Still he was leery of the advice-peddling catcher that squatted behind him. Was this concern genuine, or was he simply trying to get Sam to swing at a bad pitch?

The pitcher threw a hard slider, just missing the strike zone. Ball Two.

"If you want to be rich well into the next millennium, you should put as much money as you can into Corkwood, Inc. [Nasdaq: BALK]," the catcher said, rising to toss the ball back to the pitcher. "They take the slivers from busted bats and recycle them into wooden replicas of Abner Doubleday."

Sam could not imagine anyone buying such a thing. As a regular at autograph sessions for baseball card and collectibles shows, he figured he had a good read on what fans were buying, and sawdust busts of baseball's inventor were not high on the wish list.

"They're really nice," the catcher said, sensing that Sam was skeptical. "They have managed to trim their losses from $2 a share last year to just $1.50 this year. Left field."

"What?"

The catcher pointed to the left field digital scoreboard, which had been transformed into Corkwood's abridged earnings statement.

                       This Year    Last Year
Revenues               $2.8 million $2.5 million
Net Loss Per Share     $1.50        $2.00
Avg Shares Outstanding  5 million    3 million

Maybe Sam was wrong about Abner. Come to think of it, he actually knew someone who had bought a Wooden Doubleday from a late-night shopping channel. Higher sales, lower losses -- maybe his opponent had Sam's best interest at heart with the stock pick, after all.

"Nice," he said as he choked up on his bat, stared down the pitcher, and held steady as a fastball came in around the ankles. Ball Three.

"Well, are you going to take a swing or not?" the catcher asked. "The pitches don't get any better than this."

Sam stared at the Corkwood earnings statement. Something didn't seem right, but he couldn't place a finger on it. He always had a good eye at the plate, so what was holding him back from taking a shot this time?

"Time," the umpire called as he went around the front home plate and began to dust it off.

As soon as he had swept the area clean the ump took off his protective mask to reveal his true identity. It was none other than Motley Fool.

"Sam, don't let this catcher trick you into swinging at a pitch that is in the dirt," Motley said. "Besides, this guy is a minor leaguer. . . aren't you, Dr. Mortimer Stocktout?"

"Foiled again," Mortimer mumbled. "Still, care to tell me where I threw my curve?"

"Gladly," Motley said, who then went on to explain that even though the earnings statement was not complete, there was a misleading notion in Mortimer's presentation. While the earnings statement came out of left field he could still decipher that Corkwood:

1) sold less this year than last year

2) lost more money this year than last year

3) has fewer shares outstanding this year than last year

4) lost less money this year than last year

Going, going, busted! The correct answer is #2. Despite Mortimer's claim that the company lost just $1.50 a share this year versus $2 last year the company did in fact lose more money this year. Confused? Mortimer would like to see you stay that way, but we have some tricky tactics to scoop out of the dirt.

You probably know that earnings or loss per share is obtained from dividing net loss by the average weighted shares outstanding. In this case, you simply work the math in reverse. There were 5 million shares of Corkwood this year and just 3 million the year before. Maybe the company acquired another company for stock, issued more shares to raise capital, or simply is liberal with stock options. The point is that by multiplying the shares outstanding by the loss per share you will find that they lost about $7.5 million this year ($1.50 x 5 million shares) versus roughly $6 million the year before ($2 x 3 million).

Similarly, one can get a general estimate of shares outstanding by taking the net loss and dividing it by the net loss per share.

Mortimer crouched low. Sam stepped in and faced the pitcher. With a count of 3-0 and the bases loaded in a tie game, Sam wanted to go out in style. Maybe he would go for the picnic seating area out in centerfield, which he had never been able to reach. Or maybe he'd shoot for deep left field and smash the Corkwood financials statement off the scoreboard. He hunched over the plate and the pitcher delivered.

High and outside. Ball Four. The crowd cheered as Sam took a ceremonial jaunt to first base, driving in the winning run as his teammate on third base tagged home.

"Sometimes you have to walk to win," he shouted back to Motley as the crowd rewarded Sam with the applause he deserved for his long-term performance over his baseball career. He stopped just shy of first, held back a tear, and tipped his cap to the crowd.

He looked back to find Motley gone, and with a sentimental smile took a giant step forward.

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