Faithful (12 page)

In anticipation of Saturday’s front-row Monster seats, I drive around town in the rain trying to find a fishing net so we can haul in shots just short of the Wall. I go to Sears, figuring they might have a Ted Williams model in his fishing line. The floor associate there tells me they no longer carry fishing gear—or baseball gear, for that matter. All they have is home fitness equipment.

I find a net with a telescoping arm at the Sports Authority. It’s big, and I doubt the gate attendants will let me in with it, but what the hell. Worst case, I take it back to the car. At home, the dogs are afraid of it. Trudy shakes her head. “How much?”

It’s cold in Cleveland, and Lou Merloni’s in the wrong dugout. Schilling’s just getting warm in the first when he grooves one to cleanup man Victor Martinez, who cranks it into the right-field seats for a 2–0 lead. Schilling settles down after that, but we’re just not hitting. The Indians’ pitcher is Jake Westbrook, a kid who didn’t make their rotation until last week. Ortiz ends two innings with men on; Bellhorn hits into a bases-loaded double play to kill a rally. I’m tired of being behind and wanting something good to happen.

We don’t score till the seventh, and then it’s on two walks given up by the aptly named David Riske and a blast to center by David Ortiz off retread reliever Rick White. The ball’s deep, but it looks like center fielder Alex Escobar’s going to make a great leaping catch against the wall. He’s worried about the wall and jumps too early, and the ball bounces off him. The runners have to wait, and only Johnny scores. Even though we’ve had trouble scoring runs, Sveum’s right not to send Bill Mueller. Ortiz ended up at second, and with first base open, it’s a no-brainer to walk Manny and go after Dauber and Tek. White’s a righty, but he’s got a big twelve-to-six curve. That’s all he throws to Dauber, and gets him easily. He quickly goes 0-2 on Tek, who at least fouls a few off for drama before striking out on one in the dirt.

Embree throws a scoreless eighth, and we try to tie it in the ninth against former Sox farmhand Rafael Betancourt. Johnny slaps one through the left side. Bill Mueller Ks, but Johnny’s running, and the throw from Martinez sails into center. Johnny at third with one down and Ortiz and Manny coming up. I think we’ve got a real chance to steal one here when Betancourt goes 2-0 on David. Here’s where a hitter cuts his strike zone in half and only swings at a ball he knows he can drive. A fly ball’s a run, and David’s the guy we want up in this situation. He chases one at his knees and grounds out to second.

Two down, and it’s up to Manny. Cleveland fans will never forgive him for taking the money and slouching off to Boston, and they’re on their feet, cheering for some poetic justice. Betancourt (and manager Eric Wedge) foolishly pitch to him. Down 1-2, Manny fights back and finally walks. So there’s no delicious revenge. First and third, two down. Dauber steps in and skies the first pitch to center, and the game’s over.

“You guys suck!” I say, and change the channel. I don’t want to hear the recap—I don’t need to. We’re 0 and 4 on the road trip, and have squandered that cushion from sweeping the Yanks. It’s not that we’re not hitting with men in scoring position, we’re not hitting at all. Bill Mueller’s not getting it done in the two slot, Ortiz and Millar are struggling, and there’s no one to protect Manny. At least Francona acknowledged how desperate we are, running Pokey and Johnny to get something going in the late innings, but he may need to shake up the lineup. Trot and Nomar are still a long ways away.

My brother John’s visiting, and my friend Phil’s flying in from Tokyo. His brother, Adam, has scored tickets to the only major league game within five hundred miles, the Mets and Giants at Shea. None of us is a Mets or Giants fan, but baseball’s a fun way to spend time together—“a tonic,” Phil calls it, and he’s right. Watching baseball is the only way I naturally relax. If I care about the teams playing, I’m anxious, but the rest of my worries vanish.

The paper promises that Barry Bonds will play, but he has a sinus infection and sits. The only star on the field is Mike Piazza, but he’s catching, and he can no longer play the position, he’s just there until he breaks Fisk’s home run record. Everyone knows it too, and in the second inning we’re treated to some classic National League action as the Giants bunt three times, scoring an unearned run when Piazza throws wild down the first-base line.

It’s a dull game, and a quiet crowd—very un-Fenway-like. Half the seats are empty, half the concession stands shuttered. Worse, the crowd expects nothing from the team. The biggest cheer is for the girls shooting bundled T-shirts into the stands with a CO
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bazooka. On the small scoreboard, between innings, they run today’s Wall Street ticker.

The one Met who impresses me is shortstop and Japanese import Kazuo Matsui, who has a coterie of fans right in front of us eating homemade rice balls. Kaz is 2 for 2 and makes a slick play in the hole. When he comes up next, Phil, a veteran of the Tokyodome, shouts, “Ganbatte!”—meaning “Persevere!” or “Do your best!”

“Ganbatte, Kaz!” we yell.

For me Shea’s a break from the grind of the Sox’s losing streak, but right beside us is the scoreboard. Cleveland’s beating Lowe 2–0 in the second. 2–1 in the fourth. 3–1 in the fourth, 5–1, 6–1, 7–1—and Lowe’s still in there. The way we’ve been hitting, I don’t hold out much hope.

Here it’s 6–2 Mets in the seventh, and the stadium’s clearing out. By the middle of the eighth, there can’t be more than 10,000 people, and it’s not even ten o’clock.

In Cleveland the Sox rally in the ninth. Suddenly it’s 7–6, and the Indians have changed pitchers. A couple minutes later they change again, to #63, Betancourt. I let the Mets distract me from the scoreboard. I keep thinking I’ll look up and find us winning, but then the red light beside BOS goes out, the 9 turns into an F, and we’ve lost five in a row.

Ganbatte!

Mr. Kim’s going tonight, his second start of the season. He’s shaky, but Big David hits a solo homer and then a three-run shot to give him some breathing room. Which we immediately give back when, on three consecutive plays, Kim uncorks a wild pickoff throw, Bellhorn lets an easy grounder through his legs, and Millar kicks a single around right field. It’s 5–5 and time for Mystery Malaska, who shuts Cleveland down. Bronson Arroyo’s next out of the pen. He’s in direct competition for the number 5 spot with Kim, and makes a statement by throwing two scoreless innings while risky David Riske comes in for Cleveland and surrenders a first-pitch three-run rainbow to Bill Mueller.

In the middle of the game, we switch to ESPN to check on the Pirates, who are facing Clemens, and find out that Piazza’s hit the homer he’s been waiting for so long, finally overtaking Pudge. The commentator says he’s now “the greatest home-run-hitting catcher in history.”

“No,” I correct him, “he just has the most homers.”

Each time Manny comes to the plate, everyone in Jacobs Field boos except for a woman’s tiny voice picked up by the microphone: “We love you, Manny.” With two down and two strikes on him in the ninth, the crowd rises, hoping for some payback, and Manny hits a screw-you double off the wall in right-center. When Tek singles, Sveum—up three runs—gets aggressive and sends Manny. Manny doesn’t expect it; he hasn’t been running hard from second and has to turn it on. The throw from Jody Gerut’s a two-hopper, in time, but Victor Martinez is too worried about Manny and drops it. 9–5 Sox, and a very quiet crowd.

When I went to bed last night, the Yanks were losing late in Oakland to Barry Zito. The first thing I do when I wake up is hit ESPN, and, perfect timing, they’re showing the highlights. Both BALCO boys went deep for the Yanks. They’re down 3–2 in the ninth when A-Rod’s up with no outs and no one on. He swings, and just the way the camera pans toward the stands, zooming on the crowd, lets me know the ball’s gone. Then with two down and two on, Tony Clark hits a quail toward the gap in left that the A’s outfielder can’t quite get to. 4–3 Yanks. And then there’s Mariano Rivera dealing with two on and two out, and the A’s last hope pops to second.

Not the way I wanted to start the day. So the Yanks are playing like the regular season means something. And the A’s, for all of Billy Beane’s genius, still haven’t figured out that great starters are useless without a decent pen.

A nice matchup for the final game of the Cleveland set: Pedro, who’s undefeated lifetime in Jacobs Field, against their young ace C. C. Sabathia. Sabathia comes out blazing, while Matt Lawton puts Pedro’s first pitch over the wall in dead center. Two hits and a grounder later, we’re down 2–0.

It’s a fast game, with both aces going right after batters. Old-time hockey, eh? Lou Merloni’s playing third for them, which is just weird. Pokey triples, but we strand him.

In the sixth, Bellhorn doubles. Kapler singles, and Sveum, down two runs with nobody out, holds Bellhorn. Ortiz grounds into a DP, but Bellhorn scores, and then Manny, who owns Sabathia, plants one in the right-field stands to tie the game. Meanwhile, Pedro’s only given up one hit since the first inning.

In the seventh, McCarty’s on first with two down and Pokey at the plate. I tell Steph that Pokey’s going to hit a double to the gap and we’ll get to see big, gangly McCarty come wheeling all the way around. Unlike most of my hip-shot predictions, this one comes true—McCarty pumping his arms like a crazed windmill—and we’ve got the lead. Bellhorn comes up and doubles down the line in right, and Pokey scores easily. 4–2.

Pedro’s been waiting awhile and struggles in the bottom of the inning, putting two on with one out, and who should step in but Lou. I’ve always had a soft spot for Lou, but we need a win here. He grounds one to Pokey—tailor-made double-play ball—and I’m pissed when Bellhorn loses his grip on the transfer. Millar, of all people, bails him out with the glove, making a tough catch in foul ground down the right-field line.

We add a run in the eighth, and on comes Embree to set up and Foulke to close.