Faithful (15 page)

It’s eighty-nine degrees, a record, and my old car, which I just got back from the shop, breaks down on the commercial strip in town—maybe vapor lock? While I’m outside Party City waiting for the wrecker, a guy pulls up with the game on and waits while his wife runs inside.

“Who’s winning?”

“I just turned it on,” he says. “I know McCarty has an RBI.”

He sees my Fenway 1912 shirt, I see his—from last year’s ALCS—and he gets out to talk. In February he went down to the Civic Center to see the Sox Winter Caravan and got autographs from Kevin Millar and Bill Mueller. “I was worried it would be weird, you know, the big-kid thing, but once I got up to the table, I got this smile on my face, and the guys were cool.”

We weigh our chances for the season.

“Now there’s a rumor Nomar might have a tear,” he says, “not just a strain like they’ve been saying.”

He also wonders why Trot’s taking so long to come back from a hamstring, and we bat around the possibility of him being on steroids (or off them now).

His wife returns, and they’ve got to run. “Go Sox!” she calls, and they’re gone.

The tow truck comes, finally, and Trudy, to drive me home. It’s too hot upstairs, so I go down to the cool basement and watch the rest of the game on her parents’ old TV. It’s 4–0 Sox, and Arroyo’s only given up three hits. He’s going after guys with his fastball, dropping his sweeping curve in for strikes. Toronto’s a good-hitting club, and the SkyDome’s a launching pad, but he’s putting down Wells, Delgado and Hinske in order.

There’s a grounder to third, and to my surprise, Kevin Youkilis fields it. Bill Mueller’s knee is aching, so Francona doesn’t want him playing on Toronto’s hard turf. When Youkilis comes up to bat, they show him earlier in the game, hitting his first major league home run and then trotting back to the dugout, where the guys give him the silent treatment—a tradition with rookies. Youkilis gets it, giving phantom high fives. Only after he sits down do the guys break up and congratulate him.

Arroyo’s making his case to be the number five starter. Yesterday, in Pawtucket, in the first inning of his first start, Kim gave up a three-run homer. Trade rumors are cropping up, the most notable, Kim and Johnny D to Seattle for Freddy Garcia, who we then ship to KC for Carlos Beltran. Beltran’s a serious five-tool player, but I’d hate to lose Johnny’s laid-back personality. He’s a fan favorite, especially with the ladies, and great for the clubhouse. Though I’d love to see Beltran in right and Johnny in center.

But look at the team we have on the field right now: Arroyo and Mirabelli, Youkilis, Crespo, Bellhorn and Ortiz, McCarty, Damon and Millar. And we’re winning—on the road.

Arroyo goes eight, giving up 3 hits, walking none and striking out 6. Foulke closes easily (something I’m getting accustomed to), and though my car broke down and I’ve gotten nothing done today, I’m happy.

In the Bronx, the Yanks are in extra innings against Seattle, tied 7–7. I watch for a couple innings, but not a lot’s happening, and there’s yardwork to be done. After dinner, when I check ESPN, the final’s a lopsided 13–7, Seattle. Once Rivera was gone, the Mariners feasted on Gabe White.

So we’re in first again, barely.

And the O’s lost again, so we gained ground on them too. I know it’s pointless to be scoreboard-watching in May, but I can’t help it, just as I can’t help looking for the Pirates’ score (we beat the Giants again) and seeing if we’re still in the cellar.

In their search for a number five starter, the Yankees pick up former Devil Ray Tanyon Sturtze from the Dodgers for a player to be named later. Sturtze’s 3-0 for triple-A Las Vegas, but is that really the best Brian Cashman and George can do? Wait till July and the trade deadline.

In Toronto, it’s Pedro-Halladay III, a series I’m growing fond of. Pedro won the first two, and Manny gives him a 1–0 lead with an RBI single in the first. Both aces look good, setting the sides down quickly. In the bottom of the fourth, Youkilis misplays a carpet hopper from Vernon Wells. “You can’t do that in a close game,” I tell him through the TV. “Especially with Carlos up next.” Delgado makes my fears a reality, taking a high fastball over the right-field fence. 2–1 Toronto. Besides that one mistake to a quality hitter, Pedro looks good. In the sixth, he gives up another run on a blooper by Reed Johnson that Johnny gets a late jump on.

Halladay’s over 120 pitches and finished after seven. Likewise, Pedro’s over 100 and done. We have two full innings to go after their relievers. With one out in the eighth, Ortiz doubles. Rather than let Manny tie the game with one swing, Carlos Tosca decides to put him on. It’s an easy decision. Dauber goes down looking, Tek goes 0-2 before popping to first, and that’s our best chance. Terry Adams works a scoreless ninth and Doc Halladay finally beats us.

It’s not disappointing. I’m sure Pedro’s not happy, but Roy Boy threw well. It was a good, tight game with Hall of Fame matchups like Halladay-Manny and Pedro-Delgado. Major League Baseball, and you can’t gripe about that.

The Yanks play a similar game, but get it done, Kevin Brown going to 5-0 as they beat the M’s 2–1 and move back into first.

After a brief return to first place (one day—a cup of coffee, really) the Red Sox gently subside once more to second, half a game behind the Yankees. The most notable event of our final two games in the CreepyDome—which was actually pretty full for the weekend games—was the major league debut of Kevin Youkilis, subbing for Bill Mueller (sore knee). Youkilis hit a home run in his first at-bat and will bear watching if only because he personifies the
Moneyball
mind-set and strategy, which can be defined as a way of thinking that both arises from and revolves around on-base percentage. Youkilis, the so-called “Greek God of Walks,” tied a minor-league record, reaching base in
seventy-one straight games,
[13]
and it’s sort of a wonder it’s taken him as long as it has to reach the bigs, especially under the umbrella of Major Theo. It will be interesting to see how he develops, and how much PT he gets as the season heats up.

In the mail, a box from Steve with a YANKEES HATER cap in Sox colors. The logo,
yh
, is designed so it looks the same upside-down. “Cool hat,” Steph says, and once he puts it on, it’s his.

Driving him to his sax lesson, I tell him about another YANKEES HATER cap I saw Steve wearing earlier in the year. It was black with an orange logo, like a Giants cap.

“Do the Giants hate the Yankees?” he asks.

I try to remember if the Yanks ever beat those great early Mays teams (just once, in ’51, when they were still the New York Giants). It takes me a minute to recall the ’62 World Series, when Bobby Richardson snagged Willie McCovey’s liner. It was the Yanks’ last pre-Steinbrenner championship.

“No,” I say, “they’re too busy hating the Dodgers.”

And then I realize that, though you never hear them bandied about as a cursed or hard-luck club, the San Francisco Giants have never won a World Series.

Although it might have just been my imagination (I’ve been accused of having an overactive one), I thought I heard cries of “Dead team walking!” tonight in the hollow air-conditioned confines of Tropicana Field. How avidly Lou Piniella, fiery competitor that he is, must be dining upon his own liver these days! The Devil Rays (until further notice to be called the
hapless
Devil Rays in this fan’s notes) looked much improved on paper, but as one wit or another has surely pointed out, baseball games aren’t played on paper, and the D-Rays—
excusez-moi,
the
hapless
D-Rays—have the worst record in the majors, just 10 wins against 27 losses after tonight’s contest, which the Red Sox won, 7–3.

In a game last week, new citizen Manny Ramirez trotted out to his position carrying a small American flag. Tim Wakefield declined to go out to his tonight with a burp-rag over his shoulder, but maybe he should have; it was his first game as a new dad, and what better place to celebrate than the Trop, where he’s never been beaten?

As for the Yankees, they’re on the West Coast, so I can go to bed safe in the knowledge that we’re at least tied for first place.

First thing in the morning, I walk down the driveway to the road for the paper, pull it out of the box and unfold the front page. The header’s in red—PERFECT GAME FOR RANDY JOHNSON; YANKS LOSE IN 11. I laugh and head back to the house. It’s already a good day.

Tonight it’s Schilling versus Rob Bell, just brought up from triple-A. Bell’s all over the place and Schilling’s solid. It’s tied 1–1 in the third when Johnny goes deep, and a fan makes a nice barehanded catch of it in the right-field stands. Of course, there’s no one near him to interfere. Later Don will announce the paid attendance as 13,690, but the Trop looks even emptier than last night.

Two batters later, Bell is 3-0 to Ortiz and throws too nice of a strike. David has the big green light and doubles, adding to his league-leading total. Bell falls behind Manny with two down and first base open, but Lou decides to pitch to him, even though Manny hit a 390-foot fly to dead center his first time up. After Bell throws one to the backstop
on the fly,
Manny hits a 420-foot homer to dead center, and it’s 4–1.

After seven, Schilling gives way to Embree, who gets an out and then a Rocco Baldelli grounder to Bellhorn that should be the second out. Bellhorn bobbles it and throws to first. It’s a close play, but the ump calls Baldelli safe. Bellhorn’s puzzled; he thought he got him. It’s not until we’re well into the count on Aubrey Huff that a second replay shows that he did indeed get him. Huff then hits a nubber to the right side that Embree thinks he has a shot at. He doesn’t. Ortiz fields it and turns to throw the ball to Embree, but Embree’s brain has short-circuited, and he’s stopped. Bellhorn races over to cover but it’s too late. Tino Martinez flies to center, advancing Baldelli to third, and with runners on the corners and two out, Francona goes to Foulke.

It’s one of Bill James’s pet theorems that the most important at-bat often isn’t in the ninth, so there’s no reason to hold off bringing in your closer. In this case, it’s a no-brainer: Foulke’s a better pitcher than Embree, and all we’re asking him for are four outs. On a 3-2 count, Robert Fick hits a smash off Ortiz’s chest that ricochets into foul ground. Ortiz scrambles after it, and, unlike Embree, Foulke hustles over to cover and makes the play to end the inning.

Foulke throws a one-two-three ninth, and that’s the game, another uneventful win. Besides the two homers, the only play to savor was Pokey ranging to the right-field side of second to steal a hit from Geoff Blum, and Pokey’s played so well that we’re almost used to that kind of highlight. And used to winning this kind of game: a quality start, just enough hitting for a cushion, then a shaky setup and a solid close. I suppose I shouldn’t complain about the lack of drama.

Later, checking my e-mail, I come across a story that says the Yankees are dropping Cracker Jack from their concession stands, going instead with Crunch ’N Munch, which they say tastes better (and still comes in a box). George, you’re insane.

Yanks won, O’s won, so the East remains the same. Lieber looked good, which is a worry. Contreras is iffy, so the Yanks still don’t have a real number five guy, but if Brown and Vazquez and Lieber throw as well as they have, they’ll stick around. At some point the O’s hitters are going to fall into a slump, and their pitching won’t carry them.

More injury woes. Williamson, who’s been complaining of soreness in his elbow for a few weeks, finally gets it checked out. Bill Mueller’s knee was hurting him again last night, so he’s flown back to Boston for an MRI. And Manny’s at DH again because of “a tender groin.” This is turning into the photo negative of last year, when everybody was healthy.

The Sox won last night and so, out on the Left Coast, did the Yankees, so Boston maintains its half-game fingerhold on the top spot. It’s far too early to worry about who’s in first (although never too early to worry about who’s
on
first), but it’s important to keep pace, and so far we’re doing that. I stand by my belief—or maybe it’s an intuition—that the wild-card team won’t come out of the AL East this year, but if the race were over today, the Yankees would be that team, beating the White Sox in the Central Division for the spot by a mere half a game. Anaheim—the team the Yankees beat last night, and one the Sox have yet to play—has the best record in baseball, at 26-13.

The Red Sox, not far behind at 24-16, have cobbled together a winning team—and, perhaps just as important, a winning chemistry—out of what amounts to spare parts, and I have to wonder what happens when Trot and Nomar come back (in last night’s pregame show, Theo Epstein said they were both getting close). The question isn’t whether or not they’re good enough to play for the Red Sox; that’s a no-brainer. The real question is how quickly they can get up to speed, and who goes where once they do. I think that the original plan was for Pokey Reese to play second and Mark Bellhorn to ride the bench, but Bellhorn has been clutch for the Sox during the first seven weeks of the season. Not spectacular, like Manny Ramirez, who’s currently batting something like one point for every day of the year, but clutch just the same. So who rides the pine when Nomar comes back? Probably it
will
be Bellhorn, but I hate to lose his bat (and his discerning eye at the plate). And while I won’t miss Kevin Millara bit in right field—he made another one of those absurd shoestring attempts last night, during Schilling’s rocky first inning—I
am
anxious about how quickly Trot and Nomar can ramp up their bats.

No matter. On to the important stuff. Baseball is a great game because you can multitask in so many ways and never miss a single pitch. I find I can read two pages of a book during each commercial break, for instance, which adds up to four an inning—more if there’s a pitching change. Thus it’s sometimes possible to read as many as forty pages a game, although it’s usually less, because there are always bathroom breaks and fridge runs.

Then there’s the Face Game. I play this by keeping an eye on the faces of the spectators behind home plate. Some nights I’ll run a ten-point Nose-Picking Competition, which can be played solitaire or with a friend (you get the odd innings, your friend the even ones). Ten is a good number to play to in this game, I’ve found, but when playing Cell Phone, you have to play to at least twenty-one, because these days almost everyone has one of those annoying little puppies. (“Hi, hon, I’m at the ballpark…. What? Oh, not much, Rays are down by three…I hear people whispering ‘Dead team walking’ under their breath… it’s a little spooky… Bring home a quart of milk?… sure, okay, call you later… gotta pick my nose on national TV first… okay, love you too… bye.”) And last night—remember, I never lost the thread of the game during this, that’s the beauty of baseball—I had this wonderful idea for a story. What if a guy watches a lot of baseball games on TV, maybe because he’s a shut-in or an invalid (or maybe because he’s doing a book on the subject, poor schmuck), and one night he sees his best friend from childhood, who was killed in a car crash, sitting in one of the seats behind the backstop? Yow! And the kid is still ten! He never claps or cheers (never picks his nose or talks on his cell phone, for that matter), just sits there and watches the game…or maybe he’s watching the main character of the story, right through the TV. After that the protagonist sees him every night at every game, sometimes at Fenway, sometimes at Camden Yards, sometimes at the CreepyDome up in Toronto, but every time there are more people the poor freaked-out guy knew, sitting all around him: this guy’s dead friends and relatives, all sitting in the background at the ballpark. I could call the story “Spectators.” I think it’s a very nasty little idea.

Meanwhile, Derek Lowe goes for us tonight, and here is an interesting little factoid: the hapless Devil Rays are almost forty games into the baseballseason and haven’t yet won two games in a row. Lou Piniella must be finished with his liver and thinking of moving on to his kidneys. It’s a shame, but we’ve got a job to do here, and hopefully Dee-Lowe will do his part.

For the final game in Tampa it’s Lowe versus Victor Zambrano, a decent matchup, at least until they take the mound. Zambrano has a weird first, alternately walking and striking out hitters, finally getting Tek looking to leave the bases loaded. Lowe responds by giving up a single through the middle to former option QB Carl Crawford, then letting him steal second and third. With one out, the infield’s back, and another grounder scores him.

Both pitchers settle down in the second, but in the third, with one down, Lowe gives up a single to Brook Fordyce. Then, on 0-2, he leaves a pitch up to Crawford, who doubles down the line. With the infield in, Baldelli bounces one through the middle. 3–0 Tampa Bay. Huff nearly skulls Lowe with a line single, then Tino singles on a pitch above the waist. 4–0. Dave Wallace visits, meaning we’re going to leave him in. It’s a mistake. Jose Cruz Jr., who’s hitting under .200, doubles to left-center. 6–0. Lenny DiNardo’s warming, but Francona can’t get him in quick enough, as little Julio Lugo takes Lowe off the wall in left for the seventh straight hit. 7–0 D-Rays, and that’s it for D-Lowe.

Zambrano follows with his own nightmare inning, loading the bases with nobody out and giving up three runs. In the fifth, Tek puts one on a catwalk and Johnny doubles in two more.

That’s as close as we get. Timlin and Jamie Brown conspire to give up two runs, putting it out of reach. The D-Rays’ pitchers walked 10, but they also struck out 15, including Manny four times, while the only pitcher of ours who had any success was DiNardo. A complete mess, cancelling out Schilling’s easy win last night. A bigger worry: Lowe, supposedly the best number three starter in baseball, hasn’t won this month.