Fenway Fever (23 page)

A no-hitter is a fragile being, Stats knew as well as anyone. It is borne of purely spiritual parts. In fact, not a bit of it even exists until it is delivered, fully formed, at the end of the game.

A perfect game is an even higher, lighter being. Some say it is almost pure light. That’s how Stats saw it. Its effects will linger long after the typical no-hitter has lost its glow. The perfect game is baseball’s rapture, a radiance that travels through all time wrapped around a no-hitter. Its creator is never forgotten. In 132 years of Major League Baseball, only 20 perfect games have ever been recorded.

Billee was on the cusp of immortality. Three outs to go.

At this point, advantage Yanks, even though they were losing. The pressure was not on them to break the game open. It was on the pitcher to keep its perfection preserved.

The leadoff batter stood in and took the first pitch, low and away. He then took the next pitch, which kissed the dirt. The third pitch sailed high, and the crowd rustled with the nervous shuffle of a single mind in distress. Three balls, no strikes. Would the first runner reach base on a walk?

The batter stood patient. Billee breathed deep.

Strike one. Strike two.

Then and only then did the hitter look as if he had come to the plate to hit. He stepped out, took a sign from his coach, and dropped the bat head to the dirt between his feet. He then proceeded to eye Billee while rubbing the handle of the bat between his hands like a fire starter. Ready now, he stepped back into the box.

Billee talked to the ball—that is, as most fans now knew, to himself through the ball. He set it softly into the palm of his bullskin glove. The lefty began his reeling rotation. His right leg swung round, pointing to the center fielder, then his whole body unwound, falling forward, his shoulders momentarily squaring with the first baseman as his left hand lifted out of the glove, his whole left arm a bullwhip cocking, then cracking, over the shoulder, bringing the ball, snapping it as his right foot touched the earth and his left leg came down to stomp it.

Low, at the knees. The batter swung, driving a sharp two-hopper to short, and the Breeze had all the time in the world to
step up, grab it, pound his leather palm once, crow-skip, and fire a strike to first.

One out.

Then the crowd, in its perfect wisdom, shouted “Ruu-eeze,” loud and long, as if that one play and that one player were the only things on the collective mind of this collective baseball fan who was perched on the edge of history.

The next batter, a pinch hitter, tried to bunt his way on, fouling it off, and the wrath of Ted Williams fell down on him.

“Bush! Bush!” The angry cries went up, and ridicule tinged every word after that.

“Gutless jerk!”

“Stinking coward!”

Undeterred, the batter showed bunt again, but pulled back in time to hear the umpire call the butterfly pitch a strike.

By then the hook had been set. That is, the hitter set up. After seeing the floating leaflutz, he was now no match for Billee’s ninety-five-mile-an-hour heat. He flailed at it anyway, beginning his swing at almost the same time the fastball smacked into Burly’s mitt. Strike three.

Around the horn the white ball flew, with no player daring to look another in the eye. After that, to a man, they merely hung their torsos, spit on the red clay, and pounded their gloves with a common fury.

Then, twisting, they let “bull horn” fists tell the story. Each infielder held a pinky and a pointing finger high, purely for show, signaling to the outfielders what they had already known forever.

“Two outs!”

Stats could not imagine what Billee must be thinking in the midst of this miracle-making moment. Nor could he have dreamed what the next hitter was thinking when he jumped on the very first pitch.

A slow untamed, unassuming chopper full of topspin bucked and bounded down the first-base line.

First baseman Sandiego Gunsalvo charged in to field the ball as Billee dashed over to cover the bag.

Stats knew. Mark knew. Anyone with any baseball knowledge at all felt an instinctive flash of fear, knowing what a topspinning bounder could do upon hitting earth or leather. Watching Gunsalvo bend and glove it cleanly, they now worried that a left-handed pitcher was running toward first base while facing home plate with his glove hand trailing behind.

The throw would be lefty to lefty, heightening the drama still, for the ball would come almost from the mound.

Gunsalvo’s flip was quick and good. The race was close. Billee’s foot found the base with an intentional, but stuttering, double-stomp just as the ball snapped his glove, just as the runner crossed the bag.

Even with the angle Stats enjoyed from across the diamond, he could not be certain.

Had the ball arrived in time? Whose foot landed first? Three huge JumboTron boards showed the replay a dozen times or more. And they always ended the same way. Out, out, out at first. It was a perfect game.

The crowd, as they say, went wild. The team did, too. They would not let Billee retreat to the dugout, but descended upon him as a massive hugging mob that wobbled amoeba-like from the pitcher’s mound to home plate with grown men jumping upon one another as if they’d just won the lottery and the World Series combined.

Eventually Billee did squirm free, but only enough to shoulder-bang his way past third base and stumble toward the front-row seats in section 71.

It had been 108 years since any pitcher had thrown a perfect game for the Red Sox, that feat being performed by none other than the old-timer, one Mr. Cy Young, in 1904. And he, of course, had not done it at Fenway, which had yet to be built. Since then, the ball club had survived decade upon decade of slightly more “imperfection” than anyone would have liked, but the drought was now over.

That curse, broken.

Lunging toward Stats, Billee picked him up out of the stands, hoisting him onto his shoulders, as Stats clasped his ankles and rode upon his friend through the ruckus clinging like a rodeo rider for dear life. Once again, he sat directly over Billee on a magical night at Fenway. They headed back toward home plate, toward the park’s power point. Billee must have had something in mind.

“What an awesome game!” yelled Stats, and he would have said more, but what was the use? The clamor and roar swallowed all voices—or, rather, rolled them into one. For tonight, all were united, in heart and joy.

Arriving at home plate, Stats used his elevated status to survey the ballpark. Once again he enjoyed being so far above it all, having always been so much “below it all.” As if by a secret prompt, the rest of the Red Sox players began to back away, forming a small circular moat of respect and admiration around the pitcher and his young friend.

Billee doffed his cap and began a small, slow turn to the crowded house. Facing the scoreboard, Stats finally saw himself on the video display.

Embarrassed, he leaned down. “What should I do, Billee?”

“Just tip your cap, Stat Man. And smile.”

Stats checked his head, but touched only hair.

“I lost my hat,” he reported.

“Then wave!”

He waved with all his might. As Billee continued his slow spin, Stats saw another video board. And he soon saw what had become of his hat. Mark had it—or he did for a moment. Mr.
McCord seemed to take it from him and, as the nearby cameras recorded the scene, he slipped a few dollars into the upturned cap.

Then he passed it along. The video view zoomed in to show only the hat and a stream of hands as it was passed along from fan to fan. And filled.

Another display showed another section of Fenway and another group of fans starting their own passing hat, priming it with a few dollars and sending it along. And another. And popcorn bags. And beer cups. And Cracker Jack boxes. Row after row. Section by section, fans added donations to whatever vehicle passed their way and passed it on.

To be honest, it took Stats a minute or so to surmise the intent of the money-givers. The Jimmy Fund, perhaps, or some other worthy cause? Stats wondered if word had leaked out about his operation tomorrow.

Either motive would have made sense. But he soon realized neither one was the case. As the newspapers would tell it in their morning editions, the Pagano family had given much to Boston baseball over the years, and most recently, Stats had given his heartfelt inspiration to them—one that seemed to have helped beyond measure. And now that the Paganos needed a bit of help from their neighbors—this family of fans—they were only too happy to pitch in. And, of course, that fit. Boston town is a baseball town, and baseball is a team sport. So naturally, when someone on the team needs help, you help your team.

Billee finally placed Stats back on terra firma.

“Let’s go inside,” the lefty said, giving one last wave as they stood at the edge of the dugout. “I’m starved.”

He dangled an arm, pulling Stats against his leg, and they descended the dugout steps. Funny thing was, Stats still felt as if he were floating in the sky, high above Fenway, swirling with the stars and moon.

As Billee once said, there is so much we don’t know and there’s so much we can never know.

For example, no one could have known Billee’s perfect effort would begin a twelve-game winning streak. Or that the Sox would go on to regain first place by the end of August.

No one could have known the forty thousand “hat-passers” would chip in enough to stuff a duffel bag with an amount that surpassed any earthly demand the Pagano family currently held. The average contribution came to about five dollars and, as Mark often said to Stats, “You do the math.”

Pops did, and Papa Pagano’s was no longer for sale.

But perhaps the most difficult thing for anyone to have known was that when Stats reported for his pre-operation prep at six
A
.
M
. on Tuesday morning, there would be complications.

“Do you see that, nurse?”

“I do, but I’m not sure it’s accurate. The chart says he’s bradyarrhythmic. But with a pulse like that?”

Doc Roberts studied the digital monitor a moment longer. “We’ll need to get his father in here.”

Neither Stats nor Pops could have known the heart monitors that day at Children’s Hospital would record a strong, even pulse, showing full oxygenation into his entire cardiovascular system, and a complete lack of symptoms suggesting any heart defect or damage at all.

No one present wanted to use the word
miracle
. No one had to. Ask the Fenway faithful, ask the Red Sox, ask the town of Boston or the hawks above. And they would all tell you. Of course there’s nothing wrong with this kid’s heart.

Haven’t you been paying attention?

Stats was dressed and out the door well before noon. He was at the game that night and at each one for the remainder of the home stand, including the Orioles game on Saturday in which Billee was again scheduled to pitch. But before that game came another.

The American YMBL all-star squad had a date with destiny in a championship game versus their counterparts from Japan, and Stats, as usual, had a front-row seat.

And an extra ticket.

Luckily, he had a taker. Early that afternoon Pops Pagano made his way down the ancient aisle, step by step, stopping along the way—not only to take in the ballfield and the young players hustling through their infield-outfield drills, but to take and shake the hands of so many old friends who had missed the man with the hot dog grin and the twinkling eyes for these past four years.

“Welcome back, Pops.”

“Great to see you, Angelo!”

“Hey, there he is! About time, Pops.”

But it took Mr. McCord to put a fine point on the occasion as he rose and shook Pops’s hand. “Well, now, Mr. Pagano. Welcome home.”

That day both home teams came away victorious. That night two old friends met way out in the bull pen to sit under the moon and stars and ponder the fates.

The hawks were back. Video evidence soon filled the blogs, as did the story of balance Billee told about the mission he and Stats undertook to rescue the ancient ballfield from further decline.