Confessions of a She-Fan (8 page)

Speaking of the Devil Rays, the Yankees open a three-game series against them this weekend at the Stadium. It is weird to think that I will soon be in the Bronx, watching the Yankees from a hard wooden seat, instead of sitting in Santa Barbara, watching them from my comfy green chair. As excited as I am about the trip—

Oh my God. I will have to fly to New York and Tampa Bay and everywhere else,and I don't do flying. Well, not without a lot of alcohol and not on scary little commuter planes. Somehow, the reality of my actually getting to all these cities never occurred to me, not even when Charles at Santa Barbara Travel was charging the flights on my American Express card. What was I thinking? I am the Yankees' number one fan, but I am not prepared to die for them.

Mussina is pitching atrociously in tonight's first game. Joe comes out to get him with the score at 5–0 in the fifth. Edwar Ramirez takes over and walks the bases loaded, then finally throws a strike to Navarro—for a grand slam. He looks despondent as he trudges to the dugout, where the camera finds Jeter consoling him as he is doubled over sobbing. There is subsequent discussion by Michael Kay on YES about whether there should be crying in baseball. As far as I am concerned, all the Yankees should be crying. We lose to the Devil Rays 14–4. The only bright spot is the first major league hit by our latest call-up, Shelley Duncan.

The Yankees defeat the Devil Rays in game one of Saturday's doubleheader 7–3. Shelley Duncan hits a homer—the first of his big league career—and he takes an exuberant curtain call. He is a big, tall, blond kid with so much enthusiasm that he practically tears the arms off the other players when he high-fives them.

The nightcap is a 17–5 laugher for the Yanks. Matt DeSalvo, still no relation to the Boston Strangler, is back from the minors for the start. Michael Kay and Al Leiter, today's YES duo, discuss the fact that in his spare time DeSalvo reads books. They say this as if reading books is akin to eating raccoon intestines. The score is 10–5 in the sixth when A-Rod comes up. The crowd is chanting “MVP!” and it is only July. He responds by hitting his 33rd home run. He is now just three away from 500. In the bottom of the seventh, Wil Nieves doubles, and it is his last hit as a Yankee. Michael Kay announces that he has been designated for assignment and that the Yankees are replacing him with Jose Molina, the Angels' veteran catcher. Nieves is out. Molina is in. Baseball is a cruel business.

In the finale, the Yankees beat the Devil Rays 21–4. Shelley Duncan caps a 10-run fourth inning with a home run and then adds another homer in the sixth—his third in two games. Is he the new Shane Spencer, who was the new Kevin Maas—the rookie who comes to the big club late in the season and reels
off a streak of homers, never to be heard from again? Or will this kid have staying power? A-Rod also homers and is now two shy of 500.

After the game, I e-mail the friends of friends who have recently come forward to say they have connections to baseball. The Yankees may be barring the door, but the “regular people” who find out I am writing the book are only too happy to put me in touch with someone they know who might help with access. One friend knows someone with the White Sox. Another knows a guy with the Indians. And so on. I contact all the names I am given because you never know—and because I am completely desperate.

On Monday I hear back
from all my friends' friends, and none is in a position to help me with tickets or anything else. I am beginning to feel like Typhoid Mary. Does Jason Zillo's reach extend to everyone everywhere?

Out of ideas, I call StubHub to buy tickets. I explain to Jeremiah, my “telesales specialist,” that I am writing a book about the Yankees and need the cheapest seats available for the first 10 games starting on the 27th, plus all forthcoming Yankees–Red Sox games. I tell him I am just biding my time until the Yankees grant me press credentials.

I am on the phone with Jeremiah for well over 2 hours.While he is finalizing our transaction, he informs me that my American Express Platinum Card has blocked it. This has never happened to me before, and I am humiliated. Well, I have never charged hundreds of dollars' worth of tickets to baseball games before, on top of 2 months' worth of hotel deposits and airline tickets—all in the span of a week. I tell Jeremiah not to cancel everything we have just labored over and hang up to call American Express. I speak to a customer service representative in the Platinum Card department. She has the reserved,
snooty voice of one of those women hosts on NPR. I expect her to reprimand me for being such a profligate spender, but when I tell her about the Yankees book she turns giddy and squeals, “Oh, what a jolly time you shall have! I love Derek Jeter!” I call Jeremiah back and authorize him to go ahead with all the purchases.

After I finish liquidating my entire savings, the phone rings. It is my friend Bruce Gelfand, a writer and writing coach. He sent my
New York Times
articles about the Yankees to his producer pals, Howard Burkons and Brenda Friend, who specialize in TV movies based on real-life subjects.

“Brenda is a huge baseball fan,” Bruce says. “She's the flip side of you. She's crazy about the Red Sox.”

“I won't hold that against her.”

“She's dying to make a fictionalized TV movie based on you divorcing the Yankees,” he says. “She's already approached Lifetime, and they're very interested.”

I rein in my excitement.

“Apparently, Brenda knows the person who works directly under Brian Cashman and could get you tickets to all the games.”

“Excuse me?!”

“She knows Jean Afterman, the Yankees' assistant general manager,” says Bruce. “She's offered to call Jean for you.”

The game tonight in Kansas City, the first of four against the Royals, results in a 9–2 Yankees' win. Clemens goes seven. Shelley gets another hit. And A-Rod drives in his 100th RBI while remaining two short of the 500-homer mark.

On Tuesday I try to get organized and figure out what to take on the trip, since Michael and I are leaving on Thursday at the crack of dawn. My friend Dorothy advises me to pack light. “You end up wearing the same thing every day,”she says. I believe her, but I empty the contents of my closet and throw everything into suitcases.

Brenda Friend calls. “Jean Afterman is the assistant GM—one of the few high-ranking women in baseball,” she says. “She'll love your approach to writing about the Yankees and help you with tickets.”

Brenda tells me how she stalked Jim Lonborg, the Cy Young Award–winning Sox pitcher, when she was in high school. She really is the flip side of me. As for the Lifetime movie, I ask her to speak to Amy Schiffman, my agent at Gersh in LA, who teams with Ellen on my movie options.

I call Amy and fill her in. She suggests I also seek help with tickets from Joe Longo, a sports agent at Gersh.

“There's only one person I deal with at the Yankees,” says Joe, who represents several professional baseball players.

“Who?” I ask.

“Jean Afterman,” he says. “I'll e-mail her right away. Since she's a woman, your book will probably be right up her alley.”

I am one of those believers in signs and portents and omens. If two people in 2 days tell me that Jean Afterman is the key to my access to the Yankees, there must be something to it.

The Yankees win tonight's game against the Royals 9–4. Wang is shaky through six, but Jeter goes four-for-six, Abeu and Posada drive in two runs each,and the Yankees notch their fifth straigh victory.

On Wednesday Brenda Friend sends me a copy of the e-mail she sent to Jean Afterman about me. I write back to thank her and say how much fun it would be if she, Jean, and I could attend a game as a threesome. Everything is coming together!

Everything except Michael. He is coming apart. This morning he announces that he has an infected toe and is limping.

“This is exactly what I was afraid of! Roger Maris all over again!” I say, going ballistic. He knows a simple infection in his toe could turn into something much worse, and yet he leaves the vigilance to me.

“I'll be fine,” he says, sounding like Jeter, who could have an ax sticking out of his head and tell the media it doesn't hurt.

“Why did you wait until the last minute to deal with this?”

“We're not leaving until tomorrow morning. I'm dealing with it today.”

“What if we're in Detroit or Kansas City and you get worse?”

“They have emergency rooms,” he says and heads to the emergency room at our local hospital. He comes back a few hours later with a bandaged foot and a prescription for an antibiotic.

We spend the evening circling each other, not exactly fighting but not exactly jumping into each other's arms. I repack for the 100th time, taking enough clothes for 6 months instead of 2. Michael packs quickly, then buries himself in the latest issue of
Small Craft Advisor
.

The Yankees beat Kansas City 7–1. Mussina shuts down the Royals until the sixth, and A-Rod homers in the eighth for number 499. The Royals' announcers
speculate about whether he will hit 500 in tomorrow night's game. I hope not because I will be in Baltimore. They also say it will be “Gals' Night” at Kauffman Stadium, and women will receive free pink caps. I hate pink. I hate that women are supposed to wear pink. But mostly what I hate is the “Yankees suck” chant coming from the previously docile crowd in KC. Do people really do that in places other than Boston? I guess I will find out.

After the game, I watch the local news. They are reporting that the Zaca Fire, a wildfire that started on July 4 in northern Santa Barbara County, is spreading because of the severe drought and high winds in the area. Officials don't expect containment until September, and they caution residents to be on the alert.

I am on the alert, all right. My house could go up in flames, and my husband can hardly walk, and I am leaving to watch baseball games.

It is middle-of-the-night dark
as Michael and I scramble to get dressed, close our bulging suitcases, and lock up the house. We are off to LAX for our 8:55 a.m. United flight to Baltimore.

At the United terminal, I march up to the customer service counter. Because I am neurotic about flying, I like to confirm things—the type of aircraft, the location of my seat,the fact that the flight is nonstop—but there is along line of people waiting to speak to the lone representative. A storm in Chicago has delayed all flights in and out of O'Hare, and everybody is missing their connections. Realizing that my concerns are trivial in comparison, I relinquish my place in line and join Michael at the gate.

Our Airbus A320 takes off on schedule, and we are offered snacks. There is turbulence and I need alcohol, not trail mix. When the flight attendant comes around with her cart, I order white wine even though it is 9:30 in the morning.

“That'll be $5,” she says.

“What kind is it?”

“Your basic screw-top chardonnay.”

“Is it dry?”

“People drink it.”

I am an expert in plane wine, so I know not to expect anything transforma-tive, but this wine tastes like mouthwash. I consume the entire bottle.

We land in Baltimore. After collecting our suitcases, we look for the Marriott shuttle, which does not come. We are rescued by a large man driving a rundown van that has plastic bags full of garbage in the front seat. He offers to take
us to the Marriott for the same price as the shuttle, so we hop in. He talks nonstop about Cal Ripken, whom he likens to God.

We check into the Marriott Inner Harbor. I ask the woman at the desk for a quiet room. She laughs.

“There's a convention of over 17,000 firemen this weekend,” she says. “They get pretty rowdy.”

“How rowdy?”

“They love to pull fire alarms at 2 in the morning.” She nods at the throng of people in Yankees caps and T-shirts who have congregated in the lobby. “They're pretty noisy, too. They come whenever there's a series at Camden Yards.”

The bellman takes us to our room, the sort of space that should be photographed in a shelter magazine as a “before” shot. The wallpaper is yellowed and peeling. The closet doors are mirrored sliders straight from the '60s. And the pillows on the bed are the appropriate size only if you are a very small child. But we are happy to have begun our adventure. And we have a night to ourselves before the Yankees come into town and open their series against the Orioles tomorrow night.

We venture out for dinner. It is 90 degrees and very humid. My hair frizzes instantly, and I curse it for not being the hair of, say, Reese Witherspoon. We stroll along the harbor area, which is packed with firefighters in T-shirts displaying their local communities. When we pass the Renaissance Harborplace Hotel on Pratt Street, I stop in my tracks.

“Let's go in,” I tell Michael. “John Sterling said the Yankees will be staying here.”

“I'm hungry,” he says. “I thought we were eating.”

“I just want to see what it's like.” I waltz through the front door. The lobby is way nicer than ours.

I approach the concierge, a man in a conservative dark suit. “Do you have any rooms available this weekend?” I ask. “We're staying down the street, but would rather be here.”

“The Yankees are coming. We're full.”

“Maybe if you just take a minute to check the computer, you'll—”

“I don't have to check. No rooms.”

I have been thrown out of better places.

Michael and I continue our stroll outside and peruse the restaurant options. We choose California Pizza Kitchen because it is the only place with empty tables. I order a veggie pizza, and Michael orders a pizza with pepperoni, onions, and spicy sausage.

“You must have a death wish,” I say, knowing this stuff is poison for someone with Crohn's.

“Let's get something straight,” he says. “I came on this trip to support you, but I also came to have a good time. So I'm eating whatever I want and going wherever I want and staying up as l ate as I want.”

Fine. I am not his mother.

Back in our room, I check how the Yankees did in their finale against the Royals. They lost 7–0. Igawa sucked, and A-Rod remained at 499.

“Sounds like we didn't miss anything,” I say to Michael.

When he doesn't answer, I turn to look at him. He is stretched out on the bed, his head on the infant-size pillow, groaning from heartburn.

Friday is our first full day on the road, and I am stoked. At breakfast we sit next to two beefy guys from New Jersey.

“Are you firefighters or Yankee fans?” I ask them.

“Both,” the beefier one says. He is digging into a steak. “I remember the first game my father ever took me to. I was 7, and I thought I died and went to heaven.”

“Me, too,” says the other one, whose hair is cut like a Marine's. “It was a game against the Red Sox, and we beat the assholes.”

“My wife is writing a book about the Yankees!” Michael blurts out.

Both men suddenly regard me with shimmering respect.

“I wish I had your job,” says the beefier one.

“Yeah, give us some inside information about the Yankees,” challenges the Marine.

I pretend I have some by dropping John Sterling's name, as if he and I are old friends. They are impressed but want more.

“The Yankees are staying at the Renaissance,” I say, like that's a bombshell.

“No kidding,” the Marine says. “I thought they were at the Sheraton.”

“Not according to John Sterling.”

By midafternoon the temperature has reached 100 degrees. Michael's toe
is throbbing, so he hunkers down at the Marriott while I go stake out the Yankees.

There is a big crowd in the driveway of the Renaissance, with everybody jockeying for position behind a velvet rope, hoping to spot the players as they leave the hotel for Camden Yards. There are young boys brandishing baseballs. There are firefighters taking a break from the convention. There is an old guy who introduces me to his Yorkshire terrier. He tells me he and the dog drove down from Staten Island yesterday because the dog is a Yankee fan whose favorite players are Melky and Cano. And there are middle-aged women bearing digital cameras. They are not groupies; they are wholesome, soccer-mom types wearing Yankees T-shirts.

“A security guy said they were coming out at 2 o'clock,” one of them whispers to me. She loves the Yankees and will die happy if she gets a picture of Jeter.

There is a sudden commotion near the hotel' s front door.

Okay. Here they come: Yankees in the flesh.

Torre appears first. He looks awful. Pale. Haggard. Balder than I realized. It has been a tough season, and he is wearing it on his face. He ignores the chants of his name and the outstretched balls of the kids and does his peg-leg walk to the parking garage where the team bus must be waiting.

Farnsworth
does
stop to sign and chat. Sure, he needs good PR, but I am surprised he is so friendly to the kids. I will not boo him tonight—unless he fucks up.

Wang walks past the crowd without a smile or a wave, but I give him a pass for it. He is painfully shy, according to Peter Abraham, who tells us this sort of thing on his blog.

Molina comes out of the hotel, and everyone yells, “Melky!” Well, Jose is still pretty new to the Yankees, so mistakes are inevitable.

Michael Kay not only walks right over to the kids standing behind the rope but also stays for several minutes to sign autographs for them.

I sense that A-Rod will not be coming through the front door like the others. It is probably in his contract that he has his own special exit.

The crowd is beginning to disperse when a stocky dark-haired man in his early forties makes his way out of the hotel and waits for a cab. It is Peter Abraham. I recognize him from his picture on the blog.

Forgetting that I am not wearing makeup or a bra, never mind that my hair is a fright wig and my clothes are soaked with sweat stains, I rush over.

“Hi, Peter,” I say, extending my hand. “I'm a big admirer.”

He regards me with caution. For all he knows, I am the local bag lady. But he shakes my hand.

“I read your blog religiously.”

“That's great. Thanks.”

“I'm writing a book about the Yankees!” I blurt out, just like Michael did this morning. “I'll be following them the rest of the way.”

“I wrote a book about Wang,” he says. “It was a bestseller in Taiwan.”

“Congratulations.” I am about to ask him if Jason Zillo is really the devil, but his cab pulls up.

“Nice meeting you,” he says and drives off.

I should have suggested a drink after the game tonight or lunch tomorrow. I need to be more social.

I go back to the Marriott and call John Sterling on his cell phone. I leave him a message asking if he wants to get together with Michael and me over the weekend. I also leave a message for Peter Abraham at the Renaissance asking if he would let me interview him for the book.

John returns my call. He is busy this weekend but proposes that we have dinner in New York next week with Sandy and Doug McCartney, the Santa Barbara couple who put us together. He says that Thursday is a day game, so we could all meet in the city that night. He also apologizes for not being able to help me with Zillo. I thank him for trying and tell him not to worry about it because I might have a way in through Jean Afterman. He is impressed and says he hopes it works out.

We arrive at Camden Yards for the 7:05 game. It is everything everyone says about it—the perfect place to play baseball. With its historic brick warehouse in the background and its high-tech scoreboard in center field, it is old-fashioned and state of the art at the same time.
Field of Dreams
meets urban downtown.

We pass Boog's Barbecue, the food concession owned by former O's first baseman Boog Powell. The line is too long. We settle for Attman's Deli. We take our trays of food and ride the escalator to the top level of the park, where kindly ushers point us in the direction of our seats.

We find row LL, section 308, on the right-field side. We are about to bite into our turkey sandwiches when a group of firefighters appears and insists we are in their seats. “This is row L, not double L,” one of them says after we show him our tickets. “Your seats are up there.” He points skyward.

I can't believe there is an “up there” because we are already up there as far as I am concerned, but we apologize and go in search of our correct seats, which are near the very top of the stadium. If the first seats were in the nosebleed section, these seats are in the brain aneurysm section. It is hot and sticky and close up here, and it smells like the inside of a beer can. Jean Afterman better come through. I can't spend days and nights like this, so far away from the field that the players are microscopic. Camden Yards is beautiful, no question, but I miss my green Barcalounger in the living room.

As we wait for the game to start, we are forced to watch a Cal Ripken video on the scoreboard. He is God here.

First up is the resumption of the June 28 game that was suspended by rain with the Yankees up 8–6 in the eighth. Myers is on the mound. He does his part and makes way for Mo, who gets the save, and the Yankees win.

Pettitte is the starter for the “real”game, and he pitches in and out of trouble. By the end of the third, it is 3–1 Orioles.

I get tapped on the shoulder.

“Is anyone sitting there?” a woman asks, pointing at the empty seat to my right.

“Not that I know of.”

“Do you mind if I take it? Somebody vomited on the seat behind me.”

Guthrie, Baltimore's pitcher, has the lowest ERA in the league right now, and all the Yankees can do with his 98 mph fastball is ground out. The only excitement comes whenever A-Rod steps to the plate. Thousands of flashbulbs go off simultaneously, and it is like a fireworks show on the Fourth of July. Everyone wants a shot of him grooving his 500th, but he does not oblige. He goes 0-for-2. He is pressing. At least that is what it looks like from up-up-up here.

In fact, all the Yankees look flat, feeble. They go down 4–2. The only good thing they do tonight is to demote Igawa again.

On Saturday Michael comes with me to watch the players exit the Renaissance, but he doesn't hide how bored he is.

“It's like watching grass grow,” he says.

We leave and walk over to the Babe Ruth Museum, where we admire all the memorabilia. I choke up when I watch the video of the Mick talking about the Babe. The Yankees are deities for sure.

After a quick nap, Michael and I are back at Camden Yards. We go early tonight so we can watch the Yankees take batting practice. There are 48,000 other sweaty people with the same idea waiting for the gates to open. The vast majority of them are dressed in Yankees gear. The man behind me is from Bellport, Long Island, and drives down for every Yankees–Orioles game. The man to my left is from the Bronx and makes the pilgrimage, too.

The gates open, and there is a crush to get to the food concessions. I am dying to try Boog's Barbecue, so we wait in line for 20 minutes. Boog's is clearly the most popular spot, and after one bite of my pit turkey platter, I know why. The food is outrageously good. The platter comes with a roll stuffed with smoked sliced turkey that is smothered in spicy barbecue sauce, baked beans, and coleslaw. Michael, who should not even be looking at spicy food, loads up his plate and wolfs everything down. I keep my mouth shut about what he is putting into his inflamed intestines.

We are in section 354, row AA—above the Yankee dugout instead of way out in right field. We have missed batting practice but are in our seats in time for warm-up exercises and yet another Cal Ripken infomercial on the Jumbo-Tron. Melky is doing leg kicks as if he were auditioning for the Rockettes. Matsui is performing sort of a
Riverdance
routine. Jeter plays long toss with Cairo. A-Rod sprints. It is both disconcerting and reassuring to see the players without the benefit of TV cameras. They are no longer characters in some long-running prime-time series.