by Jane Heller
I make progress on the travel front. Dorothy Darr, my friend and neighbor, is an artist and filmmaker who is also the wife of Charles Lloyd, the jazz legend. She is experienced at setting up complicated itineraries because Charles performs with his group all over the world. She suggests I call Charles DE L’Arbre of Santa Barbara Travel Bureau and let him solve the puzzle.
So. Flights are booked. Hotel rooms are reserved. All that remains is for me to get press passes from the Yankees.
I hear back from Sandy McCartney, who gives me John Sterling’s phone numbers and tells me he is happy to speak to me. I thank her profusely and call John. When he answers in his deep baritone that is as familiar to me as a family member’s, given all my years listening to him on the radio, I half expect him to launch into his trademark “Theeeeee Yankees win!”
“How can I be of help?” he asks.
“Jason Zillo won’t give me access to the press box,” I say.
“Of course you should be in the press box,” he booms. “I’ll put in a good word for you.”
“That would be great.” What a nice guy!
“While you’re waiting for Jason,” he adds, “I would contact the media relations directors at all the teams the Yankees will be playing. It may be easier to go through them.”
“Good idea.”
He also says I should stay at the hotels where he and the Yankees stay in each city and gives me the names. I gulp when I see that there are Ritz-Carltons and similarly upscale spots on the list. The Yankees and I don’t have the same budget.
I hear back from Larry Brooks, who says he is excited for me about the book but warns that the Yankees are harder to deal with than any other organization in any other sport. He says he wishes he could help me with Zillo but doesn’t know how.
I hear back from my mother, who is delighted that Michael and I are coming to stay with her and assures me we will not cramp her style.
I hear nothing from the Other Jane Heller.
I research the names of Jason Zillo’s counterparts at some of the other teams. I fire off e-mails to Jay Stenhouse of the Blue Jays, Brian Britten of the Tigers, Bill Stetka of the Orioles, Jeff Sibel of the Indians, Nancy Mazmanian of the Angels, and John Blake of the Red Sox.
Here are their responses.
Jay Stenhouse of the Blue Jays writes, “As your interest is specifically regarding the Yankees I would ask that you run your request through them first.”
Brian Britten of the Tigers writes, “After consulting with the Yankees Media Relations department, we will not be in a position to credential you for the games at Comerica Park against the Yankees this season.”
Bill Stetka of the Orioles writes, “The Yankees have informed us that they are not cooperating on the book, and therefore I will not be able to provide a credential for you.”
Jeff Sibel of the Indians writes, “After speaking with Jason Zillo of the Yankees, we will not be able to credential you.”
Jennifer Hoyer in the Angels’ media relations department writes, “We received your request for credentials for the Angels/Yankees series in August. However, this series is one of the busiest series of the year and unfortunately we only have space to accommodate our regular media who attend throughout the season. So we are not able to provide a press pass for you for any of the Angels/ Yankees games. Sorry about that and best of luck in your endeavors.”
As for John Blake of the Red Sox, he does not have the decency to reply at all.
I am about to call Marty and report that the Yankees are blackballing me when my phone rings.
“Hello?”
“Jane Heller, please,” says a male voice.
“This is she,” I say.
“Hi, Jane. It’s Jason Zillo.”
He has changed his mind! John Sterling must have spoken to him! I am getting access to the Yankees after all!
“I’ve been hearing from the other media relations directors,” he says. “I need to let you know that nobody will be granting you a press pass.”
My shoulders sag. “Why not?”
“It’s nothing personal. I recognize that you’ve written all those novels, but we don’t credential authors of books about the Yankees unless they’re authorized biographies of one of the players. John Feinstein is writing a book about Tom Glavine and Mike Mussina, so he has access to Mike. But that’s it. So good luck.”
I don’t sit around feeling sorry for myself. I e-mail Matt Silverman, the president of the Devil Rays. I tell him about the book and ask if he would be willing to comp me for tickets to both the series against the Rays at Yankee Stadium and the games at the Trop. He writes back that he would be glad to and will put me in touch with his director of VIP relations. The Rays are worthy of affection, because look at how well they treat people. To them I am not an undesirable to be kept out at all costs. I am a VIP.
Speaking of the Devil Rays, the Yankees open a three-game series against them this weekend at the Stadium. It is weird to think that I will soon be in the Bronx, watching the Yankees from a hard wooden seat, instead of sitting in Santa Barbara, watching them from my comfy green chair. As excited as I am about the trip—
Oh my God. I will have to fly to New York and Tampa Bay and everywhere else,and I don’t do flying. Well, not without a lot of alcohol and not on scary little commuter planes. Somehow, the reality of my actually getting to all these cities never occurred to me, not even when Charles at Santa Barbara Travel was charging the flights on my American Express card. What was I thinking? I am the Yankees’ number one fan, but I am not prepared to die for them.
Mussina is pitching atrociously in tonight’s first game. Joe comes out to get him with the score at 5–0 in the fifth. Edwar Ramirez takes over and walks the bases loaded, then finally throws a strike to Navarro—for a grand slam. He looks despondent as he trudges to the dugout, where the camera finds Jeter consoling him as he is doubled over sobbing. There is subsequent discussion by Michael Kay on YES about whether there should be crying in baseball. As far as I am concerned, all the Yankees should be crying. We lose to the Devil Rays 14–4. The only bright spot is the first major league hit by our latest call-up, Shelley Duncan.
The Yankees defeat the Devil Rays in game one of Saturday’s doubleheader 7–3. Shelley Duncan hits a homer—the first of his big league career—and he takes an exuberant curtain call. He is a big, tall, blond kid with so much enthusiasm that he practically tears the arms off the other players when he high-fives them.
The nightcap is a 17–5 laugher for the Yanks. Matt DeSalvo, still no relation to the Boston Strangler, is back from the minors for the start. Michael Kay and Al Leiter, today’s YES duo, discuss the fact that in his spare time DeSalvo reads books. They say this as if reading books is akin to eating raccoon intestines. The score is 10–5 in the sixth when A-Rod comes up. The crowd is chanting “MVP!” and it is only July. He responds by hitting his 33rd home run. He is now just three away from 500. In the bottom of the seventh, Wil Nieves doubles, and it is his last hit as a Yankee. Michael Kay announces that he has been designated for assignment and that the Yankees are replacing him with Jose Molina, the Angels’ veteran catcher. Nieves is out. Molina is in. Baseball is a cruel business.
In the finale, the Yankees beat the Devil Rays 21–4. Shelley Duncan caps a 10-run fourth inning with a home run and then adds another homer in the sixth—his third in two games. Is he the new Shane Spencer, who was the new Kevin Maas—the rookie who comes to the big club late in the season and reels off a streak of homers, never to be heard from again? Or will this kid have staying power? A-Rod also homers and is now two shy of 500.
After the game, I e-mail the friends of friends who have recently come forward to say they have connections to baseball. The Yankees may be barring the door, but the “regular people” who find out I am writing the book are only too happy to put me in touch with someone they know who might help with access. One friend knows someone with the White Sox. Another knows a guy with the Indians. And so on. I cont
act all the names I am given because you never know—and because I am completely desperate.
AL EAST STANDINGS/JULY 22
TEAM W L PCT GB
boston 59 39 .602 —
new york 52 46 .531 7.0
toronto 48 50 .490 11.0
baltimore 44 54 .449 15.0
tampa bay 38 60 .388 21.0
Week 17 July 23, 2007
I was a free agent, but I pretty much shut off all talks with everybody else when the Yankees came calling. Now, when players from other teams ask, “Hey, how is it over there?” I tell them that what makes it tough to play here also makes it great. One, the people who come to see you expect you to play well. Two, the owner, the manager, and your teammates expect you to play well. And three, the team in the other dugout is gonna give you their “A” game every single time.
On Monday I hear back from all my friends’ friends, and none is in a position to help me with tickets or anything else. I am beginning to feel like Typhoid Mary. Does Jason Zillo’s reach extend to everyone everywhere?
Out of ideas, I call StubHub to buy tickets. I explain to Jeremiah, my “telesales specialist,” that I am writing a book about the Yankees and need the cheapest seats available for the first 10 games starting on the 27th, plus all forthcoming Yankees–Red Sox games. I tell him I am just biding my time until the Yankees grant me press credentials.
I am on the phone with Jeremiah for well over 2 hours.While he is finalizing our transaction, he informs me that my American Express Platinum Card has blocked it. This has never happened to me before, and I am humiliated. Well, I have never charged hundreds of dollars’ worth of tickets to baseball games before, on top of 2 months’ worth of hotel deposits and airline tickets—all in the span of a week. I tell Jeremiah not to cancel everything we have just labored over and hang up to call American Express. I speak to a customer service representative in the Platinum Card department. She has the reserved, snooty voice of one of those women hosts on NPR. I expect her to reprimand me for being such a profligate spender, but when I tell her about the Yankees book she turns giddy and squeals, “Oh, what a jolly time you shall have! I love Derek Jeter!” I call Jeremiah back and authorize him to go ahead with all the purchases.
After I finish liquidating my entire savings, the phone rings. It is my friend Bruce Gelfand, a writer and writing coach. He sent my New York Times articles about the Yankees to his producer pals, Howard Burkons and Brenda Friend, who specialize in TV movies based on real-life subjects.
“Brenda is a huge baseball fan,” Bruce says. “She’s the flip side of you. She’s crazy about the Red Sox.”
“I won’t hold that against her.”
“She’s dying to make a fictionalized TV movie based on you divorcing the Yankees,” he says. “She’s already approached Lifetime, and they’re very interested.”
I rein in my excitement.
“Apparently, Brenda knows the person who works directly under Brian Cashman and could get you tickets to all the games.”
“Excuse me?!”
“She knows Jean Afterman, the Yankees’ assistant general manager,” says Bruce. “She’s offered to call Jean for you.”
The game tonight in Kansas City, the first of four against the Royals, results in a 9–2 Yankees’ win. Clemens goes seven. Shelley gets another hit. And A-Rod drives in his 100th RBI while remaining two short of the 500-homer mark.
On Tuesday I try to get organized and figure out what to take on the trip, since Michael and I are leaving on Thursday at the crack of dawn. My friend Dorothy advises me to pack light. “You end up wearing the same thing every day,”she says. I believe her, but I empty the contents of my closet and throw everything into suitcases.
Brenda Friend calls. “Jean Afterman is the assistant GM—one of the few high-ranking women in baseball,” she says. “She’ll love your approach to writing about the Yankees and help you with tickets.”
Brenda tells me how she stalked Jim Lonborg, the Cy Young Award–winning Sox pitcher, when she was in high school. She really is the flip side of me. As for the Lifetime movie, I ask her to speak to Amy Schiffman, my agent at Gersh in LA, who teams with Ellen on my movie options.
I call Amy and fill her in. She suggests I also seek help with tickets from Joe Longo, a sports agent at Gersh.
“There’s only one person I deal with at the Yankees,” says Joe, who represents several professional baseball players.
“Who?” I ask.
“Jean Afterman,” he says. “I’ll e-mail her right away. Since she’s a woman, your book will probably be right up her alley.”
I am one of those believers in signs and portents and omens. If two people in 2 days tell me that Jean Afterman is the key to my access to the Yankees, there must be something to it.
The Yankees win tonight’s game against the Royals 9–4. Wang is shaky through six, but Jeter goes four-for-six, Abeu and Posada drive in two runs each,and the Yankees notch their fifth straigh victory.
On Wednesday Brenda Friend sends me a copy of the e-mail she sent to Jean Afterman about me. I write back to thank her and say how much fun it would be if she, Jean, and I could attend a game as a threesome. Everything is coming together!
Everything except Michael. He is coming apart. This morning he announces that he has an infected toe and is limping.
“This is exactly what I was afraid of! Roger Maris all over again!” I say, going ballistic. He knows a simple infection in his toe could turn into something much worse, and yet he leaves the vigilance to me.
“I’ll be fine,” he says, sounding like Jeter, who could have an ax sticking out of his head and tell the media it doesn’t hurt.
“Why did you wait until the last minute to deal with this?”
“We’re not leaving until tomorrow morning. I’m dealing with it today.”
“What if we’re in Detroit or Kansas City and you get worse?”
“They have emergency rooms,” he says and heads to the emergency room at our local hospital. He comes back a few hours later with a bandaged foot and a prescription for an antibiotic.
We spend the evening circling each other, not exactly fighting but not exactly jumping into each other’s arms. I repack for the 100th time, taking enough clothes for 6 months instead of 2. Michael packs quickly, then buries himself in the latest issue of Small Craft Advisor.
The Yankees beat Kansas City 7–1. Mussina shuts down the Royals until the sixth, and A-Rod homers in the eighth for number 499. The Royals’ announcers speculate about whether he will hit 500 in tomorrow night’s game. I hope not because I will be in Baltimore. They also say it will be “Gals’ Night” at Kauffman Stadium, and women will receive free pink caps. I hate pink. I hate that women are supposed to wear pink. But mostly what I hate is the “Yankees suck” chant coming from the previously docile crowd in KC. Do people really do that in places other than Boston? I guess I will find out.
After the game, I watch the local news. They are reporting that the Zaca Fire, a wildfire that started on July 4 in northern Santa Barbara County, is spreading because of the severe drought and high winds in the area. Officials don’t expect containment until September, and they caution residents to be on the alert.
I am on the alert, all right. My house could go up in flames, and my husband can hardly walk, and I am leaving to watch baseball games.
Book Two
but I Still love you
Week 17 Continued
It is middle-of-the-night dark as Michael and I scramble to get dressed, close our bulging suitcases, and lock up the house. We are off to LAX for our 8:55 a.m. United flight to Baltimore.
At the United terminal, I march up to the customer service counter. Because I am neurotic about flying, I like to confirm things—the type of aircraft, the location of my seat,the fact that the flight is nonstop—but there is along line of people waiting to speak to the lone representative. A storm in Chicago has delayed all flights in and out of O’Hare, and everybody is missing their con
nections. Realizing that my concerns are trivial in comparison, I relinquish my place in line and join Michael at the gate.
Our Airbus A320 takes off on schedule, and we are offered snacks. There is turbulence and I need alcohol, not trail mix. When the flight attendant comes around with her cart, I order white wine even though it is 9:30 in the morning.
“That’ll be $5,” she says.
“What kind is it?”
“Your basic screw-top chardonnay.”
“Is it dry?”
“People drink it.”
I am an expert in plane wine, so I know not to expect anything transforma-tive, but this wine tastes like mouthwash. I consume the entire bottle.
We land in Baltimore. After collecting our suitcases, we look for the Marriott shuttle, which does not come. We are rescued by a large man driving a rundown van that has plastic bags full of garbage in the front seat. He offers to take us to the Marriott for the same price as the shuttle, so we hop in. He talks nonstop about Cal Ripken, whom he likens to God.
We check into the Marriott Inner Harbor. I ask the woman at the desk for a quiet room. She laughs.
“There’s a convention of over 17,000 firemen this weekend,” she says. “They get pretty rowdy.”
“How rowdy?”
“They love to pull fire alarms at 2 in the morning.” She nods at the throng of people in Yankees caps and T-shirts who have congregated in the lobby. “They’re pretty noisy, too. They come whenever there’s a series at Camden Yards.”
The bellman takes us to our room, the sort of space that should be photographed in a shelter magazine as a “before” shot. The wallpaper is yellowed and peeling. The closet doors are mirrored sliders straight from the ’60s. And the pillows on the bed are the appropriate size only if you are a very small child. But we are happy to have begun our adventure. And we have a night to ourselves before the Yankees come into town and open their series against the Orioles tomorrow night.