Faithful (10 page)

The Yanks won, but the O’s lost, so guess who’s all alone in first?

So far Doug Mirabelli has 3 homers in 9 at-bats. He sees his success as a product of his extra preparation. Playing once every five days, “I can put all my focus into that pitcher and watch video or whatever for four days and try to get a little edge for myself to feel confident going in there.” Which at least partially explains why over his career he’s a .270 hitter as a Sock and .213 as a Giant and Ranger.

The matchup tonight is in our favor again—Schilling-Batista—and the game goes as planned early on. Ortiz hits a two-run shot in the first and we hang on through six, when Toronto goes to their pen. Francona’s said that he’ll close with Williamson instead of Foulke, who’s thrown three straight days now, and maybe he’s worried about conserving the pen for this weekend in New York, because he leaves Schilling in too long in the seventh, and the Jays tie the game with four straight hits. “Take him out!” we’re screaming at the set.

In the eighth, Schilling comes back out. We just look at each other. Would Francona have done this at Fenway?

Mystery Malaska’s the only one warming as the Jays load the bases. Schilling’s pitch count’s above 120, and he’s consistently leaving the ball up. Number nine hitter Chris Gomez makes the decision for Francona, hooking a grand slam over the left-field fence, and Toronto wins their first home game, 7–3.

Put this one on the list of games we should have won. When Schill struggles in the seventh, go to a stopper like Embree, then use any of your setup guys in the eighth and close with Williamson. What’s the point of carrying extra arms if you don’t use them?

At least the Yankees lost. The ChiSox got to Moose early and hung on, 4–3. It’s slight consolation. I’m so disgusted I don’t even watch the postgame, just turn the channel, as if I can make the loss go away.

The O’s beat the D-Rays, so they’re in first again.

The
Courant
’s all excited about the Sox-Yanks rivalry. Because Hartford’s halfway between the two cities, the paper has a beat writer for both teams. The Yankee guy’s a total homer, while the Red Sox guy, as befits the tradition, is a skeptic. Both dwell on Aaron Boone and Game 7, as if that’s the only thing that happened last year.

We’re headed down to New York to spend the weekend with Trudy’s parents before they leave from the West Side piers for the transatlantic cruise they’ve always talked about. Trudy’s sister and her boys will be there. We’ll go to a few museums, take in a show, wander around Chinatown, but one thing we won’t be doing is going to the games.

Tonight it’s Red Sox–Yankees, Round 2, Game 1. So far the advantage goes to the Red Sox—they’re up 6–0 in the fifth inning, courtesy of home runs by Millar, Bellhorn, and a three-run job by Bill Mueller. Do I need to bother with all this in-game detail? Probably not; O’Nan will have it. In fact I’m starting to suspect that O’Nan is going to finish the season with roughly seven hundred pages of manuscript. That man takes his baseball seriously.

The question I’ve been asking myself is whether or not I need to bother with a diary at all. I can hear my mother asking me, “Do you have to jump in the lake just because Stewart O’Nan does?” No, Ma. And certainly I don’t expect to be scrivening away at this on every game day, but it seems to me that I
do
have to add something from time to time. Call it a kind of balance. Stewart’s the brains of the operation, no doubt. He knows where all the fielders are playing at any given time, and who’ll be covering second, Bellhorn or Reese (Garciaparra soon, if God is good), in any given situation. I’m more of a from-the-gut guy.

Also a superstitious guy. I don’t necessarily know where the fielders are, but I
do
know enough to hit the MUTE button on the remote control when the opposing team’s up, because everyone
knows
it’s unlucky to listen to the announcers when the opposing team’s at bat. They always score when fans do that. You should know that I’ll be doing the MUTE thing for the Sox all season long, so relax. I’ll also be turning my cap around when we’re a run or two down in the late innings, and charting pitches when the opposing guy is really good—it’s a helluva jinx. I got Moose Mussina that way, and expect to get Victor Zambrano (Devil Rays ace, currently 3-1) in the same fashion when he pitches against us.

And okay, quite often when the Red Sox are only up by a run or so in the late innings, I simply turn the idiot box off for a few minutes. Every superstitious fan knows that not watching for a while can also be good mojo, but basically I do it because I’m too scared to watch. Especially if there are men from the opposing team on base. I made it through
Nightof the Living Dead
and
The Texas Chainsaw Massacre,
but baseball—especially stretch-run baseball—shreds my nerves. Now, though, it’s 6–0 Red Sox in the fifth, and Derek Lowe doesn’t look too bad (don’t worry, I knocked on wood when I said it).

Oh yeah… and when Alex Rodriguez grounded out weakly, pitcher to first, in the fourth, the disgruntled fans in Yankee Stadium actually booed their preseason darling. Music to my ears. I’m also an
emotional
guy, at least when it comes to The Game. There’s really nothing like baseball, especially when you don’t have to freeze your ass off on a cold, rainy night in the Bronx.

And a postscript. Today the
New York Post
had fun comparing Johnny Damon, with his new beard and extralong hair, to a Cro-Magnon cave-man. Johnny just scored Boston’s seventh run of the night.

We take the Cross Bronx, driving by the Yankee Stadium exit right around game time. I don’t turn on the radio. I’ll let this one be a surprise—like opening a present or a door (the lady or the tiger?). There’s so much chatter in New York, I figure I’ll pick up bits of the game on the street, like a pulse underriding the city.

Our first hint is in the hotel bar—where I notice Steph is bravely wearing his Wake shirt. As we pass the bar, a TV tells us it’s 6–0, but I’m not sure in whose favor. I see Billy Mueller make a nice off-balance throw to close an inning, and Lowe making a fist, so I’m hopeful. We’re sitting so far in the dark back of the lounge that we can’t see the TV, but when we come back out, it’s 6–0 Sox and Donovan Osborne’s in for the Yanks.

We make some noise, attracting the attention of a drunk Mets fan. “Red Sox, huh? All I gotta say is Bill Buckner, okay? Bill, Buckner.”

“I hope you guys have a better year this year,” I say.

Downstairs, the doorman’s shaking his head at how bad the Yanks have been so far. “They’ll be all right,” he says. “George will pay.”

A billboard for an investment firm in Times Square says BRAVE AS A RED SOX FAN IN THE BRONX. But all around me I’m seeing people in Sox caps and shirts laughing and giving each other the thumbs-up—something I’ve never experienced before in New York.

We’re finishing dinner when Trudy’s sister and her boys arrive with a new score: 10–2. The two were on a homer by Matsui, their only clutch guy. We stop at a liquor store on the way back to the hotel for some champagne, and I can’t resist asking the guy behind the counter in a Yanks hat who’s winning the game.

As I write this, it’s 11–2 in the eighth, and the only reason it isn’t 11–0 is because Derek got a little tired there. I think we’re gonna go up on ’em 4–1, which would be very swede. Knock on wood.

Uh-oh, who’s Lenny DiNardo? Still worrying even with one out.

Red Sox win, 11–2… and Eckersley’s on
Extra Innings
! Whee!

Down in the city I don’t get Eck, but at one in the morning I do get WCBS replaying the entire game, so here I am, half-buzzed and headachy from champagne, watching a game that’s already long over in a darkened hotel room while everyone else sleeps, just for the sheer pleasure of seeing how we did it. Bill Mueller with a three-run shot, and, basically, they didn’t throw a quality pitcher at us all night. Looks like Torre wrote this one off, knowing he’s got the matchup tomorrow and hoping Vazquez can get Sunday’s game to the pen.

In the hotel, as I’m getting on the elevator to go down to Times Square, a woman in a Sox hat and shirt gets out—obviously going to today’s game. And in the Guggenheim, as I wind my way down, I pass two boys in Sox hats, and their dad wearing a cherry red COWBOY UP T-shirt.

In the taxi on the way to Chinatown, the radio’s on low, but I can still hear that the Sox are up 2–1. Go ahead, Bronson (named, yes, after Charles Bronson).

Hours later, back at the hotel, two decked-out Jets fans get on the elevator. I’d completely forgotten that today’s the NFL draft. I’ve been seeing lots of Pats hats, but I just expect that now.

It’s almost five when we get back to the room. The game should be over, so I pop on the TV for the score. It’s in extra innings, 2–2, and Foulke’s on. There are two down in the eleventh and Sheffield’s on first. I’m supposed to get dressed for dinner and the theater tonight, then jump a cab out to the airport to pick up Caitlin, and time’s tight, but I sit on the edge of the bed with the boys and watch Tek gun down Sheff trying to get in scoring position for Bernie, with a nice slap tag by Crespo at second.

In the top of the twelfth, Manny doubles to the base of the wall in right-center. Tek fights off three or four outside pitches from Quantrill before he gets one he can pull to the right side, moving Manny over with a ground out. Quantrill just nicks Millar’s shirtfront with a pitch, and the double play’s in order, but Bellhorn drives one medium deep to center, and Bernie, with his weak arm, has been playing in and has to go back to get it. Manny scores easily, 3–2 Sox.

Timlin comes on to close, but we’ve got to go. We call up from the lobby because we’ve forgotten Caitlin’s flight information, and there are two outs, nobody on and a 1-2 count on Jeter, and then, in the cab, we hear that the Yanks have just lost to the Sox. This is the kind of demoralizing game we’ve already lost two of to Baltimore, and it’s sweet to win one, especially in someone else’s house. It’s even sweeter because we’re in New York, as if the city’s ours now.

The local news at eleven has found a way to soften the blow. They open the sports with a long segment on the Giants trading for #1 pick Eli Manning, then show A-Rod making a nice backhand and getting Millar, then A-Rod homering, before showing Bellhorn’s sac fly and the final score. The homer was the only hit Bronson Arroyo gave up in six innings, but you’d never know that.

Holy moly, the BoSox did it again. It took them twelve innings today, but they beat the Yankees 3–2. Keith Foulke got the win in relief (“vultured” the win is the term baseball players use for this type of win, I believe; Timlin pitched the bottom of the twelfth and got the save). If it were possible to feel sorry for the Yankees, who are now four full games out of first place—although whether behind us or Baltimore I don’t at this moment know—I would feel
almost
sorry for them. Life being what it is, I don’t feel a
bit
sorry. Derek Jeter—known in my household as Great Satan Jeter—is now 0 for his last thousand or so. The fans don’t boo him, though. Jeter seems truly beyond the boo-birds. But the Yankees, man…I mean, how long can you go on saying, “Don’t worry, it’s only April”?

Another six days, actually.

Meanwhile, we’re throwing Pedro at them tomorrow, and going for the sweep. We’re only five wins away from taking the series…that’s the series for
the year
. Man, I can’t believe this. Something’s
gotta
go wrong.

Unless dead or insane, I
will
be writing about tomorrow’s game.

It’s the last game of Round 2, with the BoSox going for the sweep over the Yankees. In the top of the first inning, the young Yankee pitcher, Javier Vazquez, looked terrific—determined to be the stopper. Ortiz touched him for a single, but that was it. Now Pedro Martinez is on the mound for us, and the real question is which Pedro is going to show up: the mound-wise sharpie who pitched in Toronto last time, or the mediocre rag-arm who started the season against Baltimore at Camden Yards (and then left the park early, sparking a minor media flurry). He’s 3-2 to Jeter to start with; Jeter, 0 for his last 21, strikes out to make that 0 for his last 22. It’s the worst streak of Jeter’s career, and given that sort of funk, tells us very little about the state of Pedro. But even as I write the words, there goes Bernie Williams, 3 to 1. That looks a little better, and has silenced the massive chant (another sellout today at the Stadium) of “Pedro sucks.” And Kevin Millar just made an incredible sliding catch on A-Rod to finish the first: no runs and no runners for the Yankees.

The Yanks are, I should add, something of an anomaly: the only team against which I actively root (it was true for a while of Cleveland in the early nineties, but no more). And it seems to me that the Yankees almost have to have this third game, not to keep from falling five games off the pace early (although five really is quite a few, at
any
point in the season), but because it’s the hated Red Sox and they are at home.

In the third inning, the story still seems to be young Vazquez, who gets six of the first nine outs by way of the K. Then, in the top of the fourth, Mark Bellhorn, batting today in the two-hole, walks (because that’s what Mark Bellhorn does). After Ortiz strikes out looking—number seven for Vazquez—Manny Ramirez comes up. After getting ahead of Manny 0-2, Vazquez attempts to waste a curveball. He wastes it out over the plate, and…see ya. Over the Yankee bullpen and into the Bleacher Zone. We’re up 2–0 in the middle innings.

Bottom of the fifth, Yankees threatening with runners on second and third, two out and Jeter (0 for 23) at the plate. Takes called strike one, outside corner; chases a fastball way up and out of the zone for strike two. Pedro sets, fires, teases Jeter outside, 1-2. Pedro’s ready to go again but Jeter steps out, commanding right hand up to the ump in the old familiar gesture. Now he’s back in, and Pedro immediately strikes him outlooking with high, hard cheese. Jeter is 0 for 24, and the Yankees once more fail with two in scoring position (before Jeter, Enrique Wilson, who usually beats Pedro like a drum, popped out to Pokey).

Sweet!

In the sixth, A-Rod doubles with one out and goes to third on a Giambi groundout (Cesar Crespo in short right field—an almost comical overshift—makes the play on Giambi). Rodriguez, at least, has begun to come around (his average has crept up to something like .252), but it does the Yankees no good; Gary Sheffield fouls out to Varitek, and it’s still 2–0 Sox, going into the lates.

Pedro’s done after seven: his game to win, the bullpen’s to lose. The bullpen hasn’t given up a run in twentysome innings, but now Williamson’s on, and he’s a scary guy. Here’s Jeter again. He tries to bunt; no joy. Fouls one away, and it’s 0-2, a place Derek has gotten all too familiar with just lately. Let’s see how Williamson plays this. He throws a low fastball, a true waste pitch, but Jeter goes fishing and strikes out. This time the crowd
does
boo, and even the resolutely upbeat Yankee announcers finally take notice. “Like booing Santa Claus,” one of them remarks reprovingly.

It’s the bottom of the ninth and last call for the Yankees. Here’s Alex Rodriguez, and it’s still Williamson to face him—no Keith Foulke, a little surprising. Williamson runs the count full on A-Rod, who has 7 of the last 22 Yankee hits; so much for
that
slump. Rodriguez, after fouling off one 3-2 pitch, grounds out, third to first. Now Jason Giambi grounds to Pokey Reese. Two out. Here’s Gary Sheffield, who has one of the Yankees’ four hits today. This time he strikes out, and suddenly—incredibly—the Red Sox have taken six of seven from the AL champs. The camera sneaks a look into their dugout, and the look on Jeter’s face is one of pure amazement. And it’s justified; this is the first time the Red Sox have beaten the Yankees six out of the first seven since 1913.

Sweet!