by Jane Heller
The Yanks land in Baltimore for three games against the Orioles. They lose game one on Tuesday by the score of 3–2. Pettitte pitches well, but Proctor starts the ninth and walks in the winning run. Walks in the winning run. There is never an excuse for that. Joe has overused Proctor, and his arm is hanging by a thread, but what is so fucking hard about throwing strikes?
The O’s shut out the Yankees in Wednesday’s game. Erik Bedard makes it look easy, as opposed to Roger Clemens, whose fatigued groin fails to get a strikeout for the first time in over 200 starts. Thursday’s contest ends in a suspension of play due to rain, with the Yankees up 8–6 in the top of the eighth. The game will be resumed on July 27,the next time the Yankees are in Baltimore.
While I wait to hear about the book, I pass the time reading Peter Abraham’s blog on LoHud.com, the Web site offshoot of the Journal News in Westchester. Almost all the Yankee beat writers have blogs, but Peter actually gives you dishy, behind-the-scenes stuff. I can’t go 2 hours without checking to see what he has to say.
On Friday the Yankees open a home stand against Oakland. They beat the A’s 2–1—only their second win in nine games. Mussina pitches seven strong innings, but Farnsworth takes the mound in the eighth and gives up back-to-back singles. Joe replaces him with Mo. Farnsworth storms into the dugout and hurls his glove against the wall like a 5-year-old.
Saturday’s game is a shutout by the A’s. The Yankees manage only one hit. Igawa, back up from the farm, gives up three homers, and Proctor and Myers are responsible for the rest of the damage.
I don’t get this 2007 team, I really don’t.
Michael is finished with his assignment in LA, and it is good to have him back. But now he is busy on his computer Photoshopping every single shot he took. He is not present even though he is home, the way I am not present when I am watching the Yankees on TV. I put on makeup and something sexier than my sweats and sashay into his office.
“Hi,” I say, wrapping my arms around his neck and kissing him on the cheek. “How about a little break?”
“Not now,” he says in the same tone I use when A-Rod is up with men on base and I can’t look away.
I sigh and leave him to his photographs.
On Sunday the Yankees finish up their series against Oakland with an 11–5 loss at the Stadium. Pettitte is just plain awful. Regarding the continuing sideshow that is Alex Rodriguez, his wife, Cynthia, takes her seat in the players’ family section and places her 2-year-old daughter, Natasha, on her lap. She is wearing a tight-fitting white tank top—one of those designer shirts with a message on the back. Usually they say Zen things on them like “Breathe” and “Simplify” and that old standby “Peace.” Not C-Rod’s. Her shirt says “Fuck you.” The parents of small children sitting nearby on this summer Sunday afternoon are offended. Several alert the security guards who regularly patrol Yankee Stadium in search of people wearing, carrying, or yelling obscenities; such people are routinely ejected. Not C-Rod. Throwing out the wife of the team’s home-run king is tricky. But the New York Post has no compunction about putting Cynthia and her tank top on the back page of the next day’s paper with the headline: “Mrs. A-Rod Is a Bronx F-Bomber.” They also ask the question I can’t help but ask, which is: Why? Is Mrs. A-Rod saying “Fuck you” to the fans who booed her husband last year, particularly in the postseason? Is she saying “Fuck you” to the Yankees, who have stated that they will not negotiate with her husband if he opts out of his contract and becomes a free agent at the end of the season? Is she saying “Fuck you” to the media who exposed her husband’s adulterous behavior? Is she saying “Fuck you” to the stripper who went lap dancing with her husband? Or is she saying “Fuck you” to her husband? Maybe she is the one who wants a divorce.
AL EAST STANDINGS/JULY 1
TEAM W L PCT GB
BOSTON 49 31 .613 —
TORONTO 39 42 .481 10.5
NEW YORK 38 41 .481 10.5
BALTIMORE 35 46 .432 14.5
TAMPA BAY 33 47 .413 16.0
Week 14 July 2, 2007
Sports fans act like the money we make comes out of their pockets—like the Yankees were stealing little Johnny’s college money to pay for Clemens to come here. As a player, you never think about that stuff. No one says, “Wow. He’s making whatever.” Do we all want to make $30 million? Yeah. It sounds crappy, but money is respect in this game.
The Yankees begin a four-game series at home against the Twins on Monday and win three out of four. Clemens gets win number 350 in game one. Game two marks the debut of the latest call-up, Edwar Ramirez, who is wiry, wears Malcolm X glasses, and throws a mean changeup. Johan Santana overmatches Mussina on Wednesday. And Matsui hits a two-run homer that wins the game on Thursday.
Everyone in publishing is away for the July 4 holiday, so I don’t hear any news about the book. But I write another essay for the New York Times, in which I say I am holding off on the divorce from the Yankees and instead going to couples counseling to talk about them. Tom Jolly says he will run it in Sunday’s sports section, and I am thrilled. I am a sportswriter at last, albeit one whose style is more Bridget Jones than Harvey Araton. The piece is meant to let people know that I still love the team with all my heart. It is not as convincing as a book would be, but it is a start.
The Yankees host the Angels again on July 6, 7, and 8—the last weekend before the All-Star break.
In the first game, Pettitte gives up eight runs for the second straight time. But A-Rod hits his 29th homer of the season and his 493rd overall, tying Lou Gehrig and Fred McGriff, and the Yankees win 14–9. Posada has three RBIs of his own, and I have to say he is having a career year, both offensively and behind the plate. He doesn’t seem as hotheaded as he was a few years ago when he had that fight with El Duque in the dugout. He is more of a leader now. He even has his own cool nickname: JoPo.
The Yankees lose the Saturday contest 2–1 in 13 innings, spoiling Clemens’s one-run performance. They continue to be up and down, sending me on a roller-coaster ride. Roller coasters make me nauseous.
My New York Times article runs on Sunday, and I get lots of e-mails about it. I don’t win people over about being a true fan. They take the essay literally and tell me it is about time I went into therapy.
As for the finale against the Angels on the 8th, the Yankees win it 12–0. Wang throws almost seven scoreless innings and the bats come alive. Matsui, Cano, and A-Rod all hit three-run homers.
It’s nice that the Yanks end the first half of the season on a high note. It will be even nicer if I get the book deal and can congratulate them in person. I will walk right over to, say, JoPo. I will shake his hand and introduce myself and tell him what a fabulous catcher he is. He will thank me for coming all the way from California and promise that the team will play good baseball now that I have joined the party. We will have a long, heart-to-heart conversation, and I will put every word in my book.
AL EAST STANDINGS/JULY 8
TEAM W L PCT GB
BOSTON 53 34 .609 —
NEW YORK 43 43 .500 9.5
TORONTO 43 44 .494 10.0
BALTIMORE 38 50 .432 15.5
TAMPA BAY 34 53 .391 19.0
Week 15 July 9, 2007
Everybody in sports today is so stats oriented, and it’s asinine. You look at my numbers against10guys and you say, “Wow. He hits them really well.” Well, that 4-for-11 stat could mean that I hit four broken-bat bloopers. You could see a 0-for-11 stat and it could mean that I lined out seven times. They put stats on your defense, too—your “range factor.” Come on. If you have a pitcher who throws strikes, I’m always in the right place. If they miss a spot, I’m a half a step out of position. Does that mean I have no range?
The players are back from the All-Star game in San Francisco, and publishers are back from vacation. Ellen says she has interest in the book! I should know very soon whether I will be packing a suitcase.
On Thursday the Yankees open a series against the Devil Rays at Tropicana Fiel
d. I really do like the Rays, as I wrote in my first Times essay. With guys like Crawford and Upton and Pena and Kazmir, they are no pushovers. And yet I feel sorry for them. Hardly anyone comes to their games, and the ones that do cheer for the Yankees, who win tonight 7–3.
Game two is Kazmir’s night. He gives up only one run in Tampa Bay’s 6–4 win over the Yankees and Clemens.
Wang pitches six solid innings for a 6–4 win on Saturday. There is a lot of first-pitch swinging by the Yankees, which makes me nuts. But what annoys me the most is Farnsworth, who relieves in the eighth and gives up a homer. I stand right in front of the TV and curse him out.
“I could hear you ranting from the garage,” says Michael, who walks in armed with bags of groceries. “Bad news about the book?”
“Just Farnsworth again.” I help him put away the coffee filters and the paper towels and all the rest. “Sorry I’ve been so checked out lately. How about a movie tonight?”
“I still have work to do.”
“Oh.”
He gives me a hug before he goes to his office. I love his hugs. He never scrimps on them. He pulls me in tight and folds me in his arms and squeezes me. He doesn’t do phony hugs, in other words. They are as sincere as he is.
In the Sunday game, the Yankees are ahead of the Devil Rays 7–5 when Joe summons Farnsworth in the bottom of the eighth. Kyle gives up a run. It is now 7–6, which becomes a final, thanks to Mo’s 13th save.
AL EAST STANDINGS/JULY 15
TEAM W L PCT GB
BOSTON 55 36 .604 —
NEW YORK 46 44 .511 8.5
TORONTO 45 46 .495 10.0
BALTIMORE 41 51 .446 14.5
TAMPA BAY 35 56 .385 20.0
Week 16 July 16, 2007
How do I handle all the crazy things people scream at me from the stands? Mostly I try to play with the fans. A guy yells, “You suck!” and I go, “No shit! Tell me something I don’t know. But you paid your hard-earned money to come watch my sorry ass play, so who’s the idiot? You or me?” They die laughing, and I turn them from hating my guts to loving me.
On Monday the Yankees are home for the first of four games against the Blue Jays. We win the opener 6–4, and A-Rod hits his 496th homer. It will be beyond exciting if I get the book deal and am right there when he hits the big 500.
Game two is a fantastic matchup of Pettitte versus Halladay. The score is deadlocked until Joe brings in Farnsworth in the eighth. Kyle gives up a leadoff single to the Big Hurt, then tries this lame pickoff move to first, allowing the go-ahead run to cross the plate. What a loser. I switch over to HBO, where Gary Sheffield is essentially calling Torre a racist on Real Sports. He is wearing matching diamond earrings and looks like a transvestite. The Yankees win 3–2 in the bottom of the 10th.
The Yanks and Jays split the final two games. Clemens has a good outing on Wednesday night and gets run support. Wang has a good outing on Thursday night and does not.
On Friday Ellen calls with the news that the book is a done deal! I am definitely going on the road to write about the Yankees! That is the good news. The bad news is that I need to figure out how to pull the trip together in about a week. I am talking about flights and hotels and all the details that go with being away from home from the end of July to—I am not sure when the trip will end. If the Yankees make the postseason, I could be gone until the end of October. That is a long time not to sleep in my own bed. But I am not complaining! I am getting paid to watch baseball games! Well, the publisher’s advance will not be on my doorstep right away, so I will have to lay out my own traveling expenses. Lay out our traveling expenses. Michael and I decide to embark on this journey together.
We acknowledge that we have coexisted in parallel universes lately, and our marriage is stale. A trip is exactly the way to rejuvenate us, to put the spark back. Thanks to all those movie options on my novels, we have enough in the bank for him to take the time off from his freelance work—if we budget correctly. The only hitch is that it poses a health risk for him to come along; he has no immune system and is prone to infection if he so much as catches a cold. Stadium crowds and airplane passengers could be perilous, and I am nervous that he will get sick while we are in some strange city. But he is unfazed.
“Going to all the games with you is an adventure I’m not passing up.”
“You have serious medical problems.” I am always the one who worries, and he is always the one who waves me off.
“Remember the broken ankle when I was 13? I didn’t let that stop me from watching Maris hit number 60.”
“You have Crohn’s, not a broken ankle.”
“I’ll pack a lot of Imodium.”
I give up. He is coming with me, and that is that. The truth is, I am thrilled that he wants to come. This trip is the solution to everything. I can prove what a true fan I am and have a second honeymoon with my husband. What could be better?
I print out the Yankees’ schedule and mull it over. Michael and I will join the team in Baltimore on July 27. But that is all we agree on because I am suddenly paralyzed by the logistics of this trip. Which do I arrange first: the flights or the hotels? And how the hell do I get access to the Yankees, to the clubhouse, to the games? I told my publisher that access was a no-brainer, that I would meet the players and persuade them to spill their guts, but I have no clue how to make any of that happen.
I call my friend Marty Bell, a successful Broadway theater producer who used to be an editor of Sport magazine back in the ’70s. He is my go-to person when I have crises large and small. He tells me I must contact the Yankees’ media relations director and ask for a press pass to all the games. I hop on the Yankees Web site and find the name of the media guy. It is Jason Zillo. I e-mail him right away, introducing myself as the author of 13 published novels so he gets that I am not some kid writing for my high school paper. I tell him I have a contract for a nonfiction book about being a Yankee fan and would like press passes. I also mention the divorce article that ran in the Times and make sure to explain it was meant to be tongue in cheek. I get a quick reply.
“Thanks for your inquiry,” Jason writes. “Unfortunately we receive scores of similar requests throughout the season, and because of the overwhelming demand of media coverage, this is simply not something we can pursue.”
Oh, God. He is blowing me off. Now what? If I don’t get access, my publisher will dump the book—and me. I call Marty again.
“You can find a way around this Zillo guy,” he says. “Just go to Baltimore and the other cities, buy tickets for the first week of games, start hanging out at the hotels where the team is staying, in the bar and the lobby, wherever they are. You’ll find a player who will talk to you. There’s always one. You are beautiful and charming and funny. You will pull this off.”
Now you know why Marty is my go-to person. He not only says flattering, reassuring things, but he reminds me not to take no for an answer. He adds that I should reach out to any other contacts I can think of—people with a relationship to the Yankees or Major League Baseball who may be able to help with access to the players and the games. He also gives me the contact information for his friend Lisa, who gets discounted hotel room rates for the actors traveling with his touring productions.
I e-mail Lisa. Within 24 hours she has Michael and me booked at all the hotels at very reasonable rates. One crisis resolved.
I compile a list of everybody I know who might conceivably have a connection to theYankees. the Yankees. The list comes to a staggering three people.
The first person is Jane Heller. No, that is not a misprint. Michael and I refer to her as the Other Jane Heller. In the spring of 2000, I wrote a novel called Name Dropping about two women with the same name whose identities get mixed up. The Other Jane Heller e-mailed my Web site to tell me that she had my same name. She said she was the largest private banker in the country and that her clients included Martha Stewart as well as George Steinbrenner and the New York Yankees. She invited me to a Yankees game if I was
ever in New York and added that she had the best seats in the house. Fast-forward to the fall of 2000 as the Yankees and Mets were about to begin the Subway Series. I took her up on her offer. Michael and I flew to New York and joined the Other Jane Heller and her husband for game two. She did, indeed, have the best seats in the house—in the first row next to the Yankee dugout—and watching the Yankees win was the greatest night ever. I e-mail her now, hoping she will help me bypass Jason Zillo and gain access to the Yankees’ inner sanctum.
Next is Sandy McCartney, the Santa Barbara woman who wrote to me after the divorce essay was published in the Times—the one whose husband is the best friend of John Sterling. I tell her my problem and ask if she thinks John might be willing to open doors for me.
I e-mail Larry Brooks, the much-respected sports columnist for the New York Post. Over 30 years ago, Larry and I were counselors at a day camp in Mamaroneck. We have stayed in touch sporadically ever since. I ask if he knows Jason Zillo and could offer any advice about how to infiltrate the Yankees.
I e-mail my mother. She lives in Westchester. I ask if Michael and I can stay with her during the Yankees’ first home stand. She is 90, but you would never guess it. She walks 5 miles a day on her treadmill and drives around in her little Subaru with the spoiler and leads a monthly book group whose selections are by authors like Proust and Balzac. She has a boyfriend named Cy. He is in his eighties. They watch Yankees games together.