Faithful (22 page)

Now, if you substitute
baseball
for
football
and
Red Sox
for
Giants,
you have a very fair picture of my rooting geography.

Francona must be feeling the heat, because Ortiz is DHing and McCarty starts at first. Nomar’s not playing—to give him a night off, as ridiculous as that sounds. Youk plays, Trot sits, so essentially we’re fielding the team we had in May, minus Bill Mueller.

Petey’s feisty, plunking Sheffield and then glaring back at him when he takes exception. In the second, he walks Posada, and that damn Tony Clark waits on a change and puts it out. Meanwhile, rookie lefty Brad Halsey is setting us down. In the fifth, Posada takes five straight pitches before fouling off the payoff pitch, then lifts one into the upper deck. 3–0 Yankees, and things look bad.

In the top of the sixth, Ortiz leads off with a slicing fly to left. With the shift on, Matsui can’t get there, and the ball hops sideways into the stands for a ground-rule double. Manny steps in and crushes one to dead center—he pauses to admire it a second, watching Halsey as the rookie turns away. It’s 3–2 and the Yanks have to go to their middle guys.

In the seventh, Quantrill gives up a deep leadoff fly to right-center by McCarty. Lofton gets there, just short of the track, but one-hands it, and the ball pops out. Youk singles to left, so we’ve got first and third with no outs, and a big inning’s brewing. Pokey hits into an easy 4-6-3 DP, but McCarty scores to tie the game.

Pedro finishes the seventh, and they go to Tom Gordon, who’s solid. Foulke throws two innings for us, sneaking out of a one-out bases-loaded jam in the bottom of the ninth. Mo gets us one-two-three in the tenth, while Embree has to battle Bernie with first and third to reach the eleventh.

We load them with no outs. Millar’s due up, but we’ve got Nomar and Trot available. Francona sticks with Millar, who hits into a 5-2 double play. McCarty flies out, and I think this one’s over, but Embree gets them one-two-three.

The Yanks go to Tanyon Sturtze, who puts runners on first and third with one out, but Bellhorn pops up (he popped up last night in a similar situation). With two gone, Francona decides to pinch-hit Trot, who flares one to left that Jeter snags on the run, then—weirdly—takes two strides and dives into the seats, banging up his face. On the replay, he’s got room to swerve or slide, but there he goes into the stands like a bad stuntman. In Japan they call that a
hotu dogu
.

We’re down to Curtis Leskanic, who gives up a leadoff triple to Enrique Wilson when Johnny misplays a hop off the wall. Giambi strikes out, looking bad on three splitters, but Leskanic hits Sheffield (Torre comes out to bitch), and we intentionally walk A-Rod to set up the DP.

We’re in the top of the twelfth right now and scratching like mad to salvage one game. The ESPN boys are saying that if we get skunked, we’re dunked. I don’t believe that, but a win would be nice…salvage a little of the ole self-respect. Garciaparra has been dog-bit in the field, and I really think Francona has been a bad choice as manager. Not in Daddy Butch’s league (at least not yet), but he’s not doing much to turn it around, is he? And if he’s looking for a team leader, who is he going to look to? The guyswho’ve been out all season and just came waltzing back in like they had a free pass? Manny? Don’t make me laugh. And Ortiz last night… Buckner all over again. Sign me, Just Plain Glum.

Meanwhile, in the game, runners at first and third, one out. As the old gypsy says, “I see handsome men on horseback.”

If it has to be anybody, let it be Tony Clark.

And if it has to be anybody else, let it be good old Tom Gordon.

With Millar as a fifth infielder, Bubba Crosby, who pinch-ran for Matsui, takes the count full before grounding to Pokey, who goes home for the force. Bernie Williams falls behind 0-2, and Leskanic gets him with a splitter and we worm out of it.

Manny leads off the thirteenth with a rocket off the camera platform in left-center, and suddenly we’re up 4–3. All we have to do is hang on.

Leskanic looks strong, striking out Posada, then making a nice play on a dribbler to the third-base side by Clark. I want him to finish off Ruben Sierra—a guy who strikes out a ton—but Sierra bounces a single up the middle. Now with two out, the outfielders have to play deep so nothing gets through to score the runner. Leskanic gets ahead of Cairo 0-2. His next pitch is on the corner, and I yell, “Got him!” but the ump blows the call. I hold my arms out wide, beseeching the TV. On the next pitch, Cairo hits a fly toward the right-center gap. Millar heads over. He may not have a shot at catching it, but at the last second he veers away from it and toward the wall, trailing it as it hops across the track. Sierra’s chugging around third; he’s going to score easily.

“What the fuck is Millar doing out there?”

Once again, Francona’s fucked up. He pinch-ran Kapler but didn’t pull the double switch. Kapler gets to that ball—at the very least he cuts it off.

John Flaherty, a backup catcher who played for us in the ’80s, pinch-hits. He’s hitting .150, but he lofts a double into the left-field corner, and the game’s over.

So we go from embarrassing to humiliating to painful, finding a new, more wrenching way to lose each night. I should have never mentioned the word
sweep.
We’re eight and a half back, and the tone of the break is definitely set.

In bed, still pissed off, I revisit the question of what the fuck Millar is doing out there in the thirteenth inning. The answer goes back to spring training, and the last man cut from the squad. Rather than keep Adam Hyzdu as a bona fide backup outfielder, Theo and Francona made the decision to go with Burks, Dauber, McCarty and Millar, understanding that Trot wouldn’t be back for a couple of months. None of those four gets to that ball. Hyzdu does. And why is Kapler watching the play from the bench? It’s like Francona has to learn the same lesson game after game—and it’s common sense: to protect a late lead you want your best defense on the field. It’s just fundamental baseball. Numbnut.

Shit
.

The Yankees took all three games at the Stadium—swept us out, sent us packing, dropped us eight and a half games back in the AL East, and the second-to-last thing in the world I want to do this morning is write about baseball. The last thing I want to do is write about the Boston Red Sox. Since I have to, maybe the best thing to do is get it out of the way in a hurry.

It was clear from the Yankees’ jubilation that they really
wanted
the sweep, probably as payback for the humiliation of being beaten six of seven earlier in the season. For Boston fans, the series was a quick-and-dirty refresher course on how hard being a Red Sox fan can be. It’s not the sweep that hurts so much as the fact that we
should
have won last night’sgame (the Yankees took that one by a score of 5–4 in thirteen innings), we
could
have won the June 30th game, and I would argue that we might even have won the first game of the series, in which we were blown out, if not for the errors (the Sox committed three, two by Garciaparra, who committed three overall in the series—he didn’t play last night).

Being a Red Sox fan, particularly when playing the Yankees at crucial junctures of the season, can be such a filthy job. Two nights ago, with the Sox leading 2–0 but in a jam, Tony Clark hit a hard ground ball down to first. It should have been the third out. In the dugout, Tim Wakefield—down for the win, if the Sox could hold on—raised his hands joyfully. But instead of being an out, the ball squirted through David Ortiz’s glove and into right field.
[25]
Ortiz blamed his glove, claiming the webbing was defective. Boston fans, knowing where God and the Fates stand in regard to our benighted club, did not doubt it.

In last night’s game, Manny Ramirez hit a home run in the top of the thirteenth to put the Sox up, 4–3. In the bottom of the inning, the first two Yankees to bat went harmlessly. Then Sierra singled, Cairo doubled, and Flaherty doubled. Ball game. The loss doesn’t hurt so much as coming so close to winning. Twice during that nightmare inning we were only a strike away.

And so I found myself doing what I have done after so many Red Sox close-but-no-cigar losses in my lifetime: lying in my bed wide-awake until maybe two or two-thirty in the morning, seeing the key base hit that opened the door skip past the pitcher’s mound, then past the shortstop (Pokey Reese in this case) and into center field; seeing the celebrating Yankees; seeing our manager (Terry Francona in this case) hustling out of the dugout and into the clubhouse just as fast as his little legs could possibly carry him. Only this time I lay there
also
thinking that when I got up again after a night of bad rest, I was actually going to have to
write
about this fuckaree, thanks to my friend Stewart O’Nan, who got me into this.

Thanks, Stewart.

But there’s one very good thing about July 2nd. The Red Sox are on toAtlanta. Atlanta usually kills us, but they’re having a down year, and at least I don’t need to write about the damn Yankees for a while.

After blowing two we should have won in the Bronx, we head south to take on the Dixie equivalent of the Evil Empire, the Braves. They’re not that good this year, having lost most of that nibble-the-corners staff of the ’90s, but they play in the worst division in baseball, the NL East, so they’re still scrapping. Bill Mueller’s back, and to make room for him, the Sox put Crespo on waivers, with an eye toward assigning him to Pawtucket.

Arroyo throws well, as does former Cleveland phenom Jaret Wright. Ortiz goes deep in the first, and Bill Mueller knocks in a run in his first at-bat, but the Braves get solo shots from Chipper Jones and J. D. Drew to tie it at 2.

In the middle of the sixth, Steve calls. He’s watching up in Maine. “The Sox are playing like old people fuck.” He’s worried about the season going down the tubes.

“Hey,” I say, “we almost have our starting lineup out there for the first time all year. Bill Mill at third, Nomar at short, Trot in right. The only one missing is Pokey.”

“Is that a good thing, though, Stewart? Wouldn’t you rather have the other guys playing the way they were playing in April or May? Pokey’s not the one who hit .225 and made three errors this week. Nomar cost us a game.” (As he says this, Bellhorn whiffs, and a caption says that his 90 strikeouts lead the league.)

“And Francona cost us at least one.”

“I hate looking into the dugout and seeing him rocking back and forth.”

“Like Danny in
The Shining
. I keep looking for drool.”

“Redrum! Redrum!”

Steve says he couldn’t sleep after last night’s game, that he lay in bed, seeing Sierra’s ground ball up the middle. I confess to lying awake as well, as if we’re joined by a sickness, and we are.

When he hangs up, I feel like I’ve lost someone on the suicide hotline. I think I should have been able to cheer him up, but I can’t lie; we’ve looked awful lately. Just have to ride it out.

It’s 2–2 in the eighth when the starters give way to a roll call of relievers. It’s almost a replay of last night’s game, with each team putting runners on and then not being able to drive them in.

In the tenth Manny finally breaks the tie, knocking a single up the middle to score Johnny. In comes Foulke to close, even though he threw two innings last night. Rafael Furcal, who’s the second fastest person in the stadium, doubles to left-center, then takes third on what the replay shows to be a foul ball (Francona stands blankly at the dugout rail). Little Nick Green hits a sac fly, and we’re tied.

We do nothing in the eleventh or twelfth, and trust the game to Anastacio Martinez, recalled today to fill the spot left by Williamson, back on the DL. Anastacio looks good in the eleventh, but in the twelfth he gets no one out, giving up a single, a single and then a three-run homer to end it. 6–3, and we suck. At least the Mets beat the crap out of the Yanks, 11–2. Go Mets!

Walking on the beach this morning, we pass a couple on a towel. The guy spies our Sox hats and says, “How ’bout those Yankees?”

“How ’bout those Marlins?” I ask.

Later, driving on I-95, I’m cheered by the sheer number of Red Sox stickers and license-plate holders, even an official Mass license plate like Trot hawks on NESN. I pass a car that has one of the free BELIEVE stickers Cambridge Soundworks gives out by Autograph Alley, and I think: yes, it’s that simple. We may be down now, but this is my team, and I’m going to believe in them, whatever happens. Fuck the Yankees, and fuck their no-showing, front-running, fair-weather fans.

We all have our little strategies for dealing with loss, and right now I’m using all of mine. The Red Sox, who seem to be imploding, lost another heart-wrecker last night, this time in twelve innings, in Atlanta. That’s four straight, the last three close ones. Strategies for dealing?

One:
Stop reading the sports pages. Right now I won’t even read about Wimbledon, lest my eye should stray to a baseball story, or, worse, the standings, on the facing page.

Two:
Kill the sound. I watch the game every night on TV, but now with the MUTE function engaged, because I have conceived an active horror of what the announcers may be saying. MUTE doesn’t work when the game’s on ESPN, because their closed captioning kicks in, and in those cases, I have to turn the volume all the way down to 0.

Three:
Change the station when the game is over. Just as soon as the final out is recorded I punch in Channel 262, better known as Soapnet. No way am I waking up to NESN’s
SportsDesk
these days, even though I know I may be missing the always fascinating Jayme Parker. No, for the foreseeable future, I’ll be catching up on
All My Children
while I shave and do my morning exercises.

Meantime, good news—and it has nothing at all to do with me saving a bunch on my car insurance. It looks like the current BoSox skid is going to end at four—it’s the top of the ninth, and Boston’s leading Atlanta 6–1. Curt Schilling’s on the hill for the Sox, looking for number eleven. He’sbeen our most reliable pitcher, because that sucker’s not just good, he’s
lucky
. Tonight Doug Mirabelli came up with two outs and the bases juiced, and although the Sox have been horrible all year in that situation, tonight was Mirabelli’s night—he put one over the fence to dead center, and that should be lights out for this light-hitting Braves team.

Mr. Tripp, who owns the local general store, gave me a T-shirt today that says RED SOX on the front and I SUPPORT TWO TEAMS, THE RED SOX AND WHOEVER BEATS THE YANKEES on the back. I wore it for tonight’s game, and I intend to wear it again tomorrow. And every day until they lose. (I also intend to keep on watching
All My Children
on Soapnet instead of
SportsDesk
on NESN for the foreseeable future. Less stress.)