by Jane Heller
It is off to Comerica Park for the series finale and the Yankees’ last trip to Detroit this season. Our seats are in section 344, row 1—at the left-field foul pole. A woman throws peanuts at the people in the row below and thinks it is hysterically funny. Once again, the Comerica employees sit on their butts and do nothing.
Mussina is on the mound. I can’t picture him getting another start if he gets shelled tonight.
He gives up a run in the first, two more in the second, and three more in the third. The guy has nothing, as opposed to Verlander, who is handcuffing the Yankees. Edwar and Henn don’t help us from the pen, and the Tigers pound out 20 hits.
The final score is 16–0.
“I can’t believe that in three starts I’ve forgotten how to pitch after 17 years,” Mussina tells the media afterward.
While we wait to board our flight to LaGuardia on Tuesday morning, I hop on my laptop and read what the beat writers are saying about Yankeeville. They are reporting that Mussina will be meeting with Torre and Guidry to discuss his future—whether he should work out his problems on the mound during Sunday’s game against Tampa Bay or take some time off.
Our flight lands in New York. I didn’t drink putrid plane wine or even miss it.
We check back into the Marmara, our home away from home. It feels wonderfully familiar. Since this is a slow week in New York with everybody fleeing to the Hamptons for the Labor Day holiday, we are given the same extra-large apartment we had last time at a special, lower rate.
Tonight begins yet another episode in the drama that is Yankees–Red Sox, as we open the first of a three-game set tonight. The Stadium is bulging with men, women, and children in Yankees gear, many of them looking a little lost. We, on the other hand, feel like regulars. We take shortcuts. We maneuver through and around people. We get an elbow in the ribs and give an elbow right back. We are no longer intimidated.
We go right up to the Tier level. We have not eaten since breakfast, so we buy food. Michael, who has rated the Yankee Stadium hot dog to be the worst of any he has sampled so far, nevertheless tries again. He looks at it, turns up his nose, and sends it back.
“Whassup?” says the girl behind the counter.
“It’s not cooked,” he says. “I want another one. And I want it hot.”
Our seats are in Tier 32, row B—in the outfield just to the left of the foul pole. There are lots of Red Sox fans in our section. I can’t understand why anyone would scream “Yankees suck” for nine straight innings.
Tiger Woods is in the house. So is Cameron Diaz.
Pettitte is going against Dice-K tonight. Joe announced before the game that Mussina will skip his next start against the Devil Rays and that another kid, Ian Kennedy, will be called up from Scranton to take his place.
Dice-K pitches to Damon in the top of the first. I cannot stand him. Dice-K, I mean. Same with Beckett, Schilling, and Pap Smear. Same with Manny and Big Sloppy. They are so arrogant. I hate them.
We are tied at 2–2 until the fifth, when Jeter’s solo shot puts us ahead.
Varitek’s own solo shot—I really hate Varitek—knots things up again in the seventh.
Damon’s two-run homer in the bottom of the frame warrants a long curtain call. The crowd continues to cheer him not only for breaking the tie but also for sticking it to his old team.
In the top of the eighth, Joba trots in from the bullpen to chants of his name. I pray this is not the game when he finally screws up. It is not.
“Enter Sandman” heralds Mo’s entrance in the top of the ninth. Varitek strikes out. Crisp strikes out. Lugo lines out. Three up, three down. Game over. What is it Boston fans are always saying about Mo? That the Red Sox have figured him out? No way.
Wednesday is a gorgeous day—sunny and hot but without the usual summer humidity, and Michael and I take advantage of it by walking all over the city.
Our seats for tonight’s contest are in Tier 35, row B—in the upper reaches of right field. I am next to a Red Sox couple. They are in their late twenties and are wearing the blue caps with the stupid red “B” on them. I can’t stand sitting next to them, but I try to be on good behavior.
The guy is from Connecticut. His girlfriend is from Boston. She is the noisy one. She is blond and effervescent and says that she loves the Red Sox more than she loves members of her own family.
“How do your parents feel about that?” I ask.
“They love the Red Sox more than they love me,” she says.
The scoreboard is showing a “Yankeeography” of Andy Pettitte.
“He really sucks,” says the blonde.
I do a double take. What sort of person would say Pettitte sucks at Yankee Stadium and for what reason? I am going to smash her face.
“By the way,” I say, “how come the Red Sox get a new shortstop every year?”
Michael gives me a look.
“Because we’re not the Evil Empire,” she says. “We can’t go out and buy the best players.”
She is not just a Red Sox fan. She is a moronic Red Sox fan. Does she not know that her team has the second-highest payroll in baseball?
“You did spend a hefty chunk of change on Dice-K,”I say. “And how about that $70 million contract for J. D. Drew?”
“There should be a limit on the number of trades teams can make so that fans in, like, Baltimore can finally know what it’s like to win.”
There should be a limit on Red Sox fans allowed into Yankee Stadium. “The fans in Baltimore know what it’s like to win. Ever hear of Frank Robinson? Brooks Robinson? Jim Palmer?”
“And Boog Powell,” Michael adds. “Best food in the American League.”
Bob Sheppard gives us the lineups.
“Jeter is so overrated,” the blonde pipes up again.
You do not trash the Captain. “I see Manny is out of the lineup,” I counter. “Did he pull a hamstring tying his shoelaces?”
She turns away in a snit.
Clemens takes the mound. He was Beckett’s idol growing up, and this is the first time they have faced each other. The Rocket hits Pedroia with a heater. There are no warnings issued, but the pitch must be retaliation either for Dice-K hitting A-Rod last night or for Pedroia’s comment after the game that A-Rod’s hard slide into Lugo was “a cheap shot.”
In the bottom of the seventh, with the Yankees up 3–1, A-Rod belts one of Beckett’s pitches for a line-drive homer, his 44th on the season and 508th overall, tying Frank Thomas. Josh is history.
Farnsworth comes in for the top of the eighth. He gets Ortiz to fly out, and there are huge cheers. But he gives up a two-run homer to Youkilis for 4–3 and sucks all the air out of the Stadium. Well, except for the blonde and her boyfriend, who are bouncing up and down with joy. After Farnsworth walks Varitek, Kyle gets the hook from Joe, who brings in Mo for four outs—again. Crisp grounds out. Hinske grounds out. Lugo grounds out. Pedroia grounds out. Game over. Yeah, the Red Sox have figured Mo out all right.
“Great meeting you guys,” I say to the blonde and her boyfriend as Frank Sinatra croons in the background. “Hope you had a good time.”
Thursday is a day game after a night game. I know the routine by now. Get up. Get dressed. Get some work done. Get to the ballpark.
I check e-mail. There is nothing from anybody who can help me meet my Yankee. What will I do? How will I make the interview happen? Will I have to give the publisher their money back if I fail?
Our seats for today’s game are in Tier 28, row T, which means we are in for one of those steep climbs that make me breathless. We are along the left field line in fair territory, and we are surrounded—really surrounded—by Red Sox fans. The guy behind me yells “Yankees suck”even before the lineups are announced.
I turn around. “Go fuck yourself.”
“Hey, come on,” Michael scolds me. “There’s a kid here.”
A boy of about 7 is sitting below us. He is wearing a Red Sox cap.
“He can go fuck himself, too.”
> Wang takes the mound, and his band of rooters wave their Taiwanese flags. The Red Sox fan behind me yells, “Wang sucks!” I want to kill him.
The Yankees get on the board in the bottom of the third with Cano’s solo shot off Schilling. The Red Sox fan yells, “Jeter wears lipstick!” It is bizarre, because Jeter is not even up. The same moron shouts, “Hip, hip, Jor-gay!”I turn around to say something, but Michael clamps his hand down on my arm.
Cano goes deep for the second time in the bottom of the fifth. The Red Sox fan yells, “Jeter blows A-Rod!” I guess that in Boston being gay must be the worst thing you can possibly be.
In the bottom of the seventh, after Melky gets some chin music from Schilling, the Red Sox fan shouts, “Hit him in the head next time!”
That does it. I get up from my seat, turn around and yell, “Shut your fucking piehole or I’ll shut it for you!”
“What the hell are you thinking?” Michael says as he pulls me back into my seat. “The only reason you’re not getting your skull cracked open is because you’re a girl. I’m the one he’ll hit.”
I smile. I have not been called a girl since, well, I was a girl.
Wang has pitched a gem through seven, and Joba keeps Boston scoreless in the eighth. Okajima comes in for Schilling in the bottom half and allows two more runs for 5–0. We are all on our feet, cheering and clapping and gearing up for the sweep, as Joba reappears in the ninth. He lets go of a fastball that sails over the head of Youkilis, who glares toward the mound. The next pitch? Same place. The home plate umpire ejects Joba. Joe comes out to argue that both pitches slipped out of the kid’s hand, but the ump is not buying it. Joba takes a seat to a standing ovation. Edwar replaces him and retires Lowell and Drew. Game over.
“Great stuff,” says Michael as we file out.
“As good as it gets.”
On Friday I go for a power walk. It is hot and sticky,but I need the exercise. Watching ballgames is very sedentary.
I am marching past clothing stores and electronics stores and drugstores. And then I put on the brakes when I get to a Korean market. I spot the ripest, reddest, most luscious-looking tomatoes and suddenly feel a pang of sadness—that the tomatoes we were growing at home in California have died, that the tomato season is almost over, that the summer is almost over.
Summer has always meant swimming and riding around in my convertible and hanging out at the beach. But it is the start of the Labor Day weekend, and I have not done any of those things. And while this trip is a dream come true in that I get to follow the Yankees, it has also afflicted me with tunnel vision. All I think about is baseball, even more than before. There is a war in Iraq and a crisis in health care and a raging debate about global warming, but I am in a baseball bubble. This morning, for instance, there was an article in the Times with the headline “For Struggling Tribe, Dark Side to a Windfall.” I assumed they were talking about the Cleveland Indians instead of a Native American tribe out west!
Later, Michael and I meet my mother for lunch at an Italian restaurant.
“Are the Yankees being nicer to you?” Mom asks.
“Not yet.”
“So many nuts out there.” She shakes her head. “I guess they think you’re one of them.”
She goes on to say how much she loves Melky and Jeter and Jorge.
“I wish I could warm to A-Rod, though. There’s something about him that turns me off.”
“Is it the spitting?” My mother has a thing about that.
“He doesn’t look like he’s enjoying himself. He should be more like Canoe.”
“Cano.”
“And I like the right fielder. You know who I mean.”
“Abreu.”
She smiles shyly. “I have a little crush on him.”
“How is it that you can be in love with them without getting all upset when they lose?”
She pats my hand. “The wisdom of old age, dearie.”
Since it is the Friday night of a holiday weekend and we are playing Tampa Bay, not Boston, the #4 subway is not that crowded. The baby boomer woman standing next to me admires my Yankees hat, which is black and has rhinestones adorning the N and Y.
“We’re going to the game tonight,” she says, nodding at her husband. “We go to practically every game.”
“My wife’s writing a book about the Yankees!” Michael blurts out. “It all started after she said in the New York Times she was divorcing them!”
The woman squeals. “You’re the one who wrote that article?”
“We read it,” says the husband. “That was really you?”
“Yes,” I say.
The woman reaches into her purse and pulls out a piece of paper. It is her grocery list. She hands it to me and asks me to sign it. I am actually giving an autograph on a subway.
At the Stadium we waltz up to Ticket Window #74, where Cass Halpin, the Devil Rays’ head of VIP relations, instructed us to pick up our complimentary tickets.
Since we are VIPs, we are on the main level, in box 212, row F, instead of up in the Tier. It is the section reserved for the friends and family of the visiting team, according to the pretty young woman who oversees security for the section. Michael tells her she is the first nice security person we have met, and she laughs.
Hughes is on the mound and gives up a run in the top of the first. The people around us are cheering, because they are all relatives of the Devil Rays players. I smile at them to let them know that I like the Rays, too. I also like the fact that these men and women are rooting for their team, not trashing the Yankees. They are not bitter and angry and using the word suck. They are a positive group.
The Yankees look flat at the plate, like they always do after they play Boston.
Hughes is at 81 pitches by the top of the fifth—not exactly an efficient outing. After he serves up a homer to Pena, he leaves for Chris Britton, the latest call-up, who comes back out in the sixth and gives up Pena’s second homer of the day. Bruney is responsible for another three runs.
The Yankees lose 9–1. This is our 2007 season right here.
As Michael and I leave the Stadium,I tell him I was touched by the way the relatives of the Devil Rays supported their boys. “I hardly ever think about the players as real people having real flesh-and-blood families.”
“They’re not the products of immaculate conception.”
“I realize that. There was just something refreshing about the family members cheering for their kids tonight. It was like a high school game where all the parents show up. I really enjoyed myself.”
He looks dumbstruck. “The Yankees lost and you enjoyed yourself?”
I nod. “I liked the way people rooted for their team even though that team is in last place.”
“It’s called loyalty.”
September 1 feels like fall. A cold front blew in late last night; and today is cooler, less humid, with brilliant sunshine. The city is very quiet—well, except for the construction on Second Avenue—and it almost feels as if Michael and I are the only ones here.
Today is a day game after a night game—the second in the series against Tampa Bay. We are in the same box, 212, as last night, but in row B, which is even closer to the field.
I introduce myself to some of the Devil Rays families. Behind me are the parents and aunt and uncle of Dan Wheeler, a relief pitcher. They travel from Rhode Island to see their boy whenever he is playing in New York or Boston. Dan’s father, Norman, is a friendly, down-to-earth man—the opposite of the stereotypically pushy sports parent.
The big Yankees news today is that our starter is Ian Kennedy. The 22-year-old has been promoted from Scranton to take Mussina’s spot in the rotation. He is short and slight and looks about 14. From what I can tell during the warm-up, his pitching style resembles Moose’s.
He goes seven innings, allowing three runs. He shows a lot of poise and, best of all, throws strikes.
The Yankees are cruising to a 9–3 victory until Viz comes in for the top of the eight
h. He gives up a couple of runs, and the crowd boos him, fearing this game might slip away. Joe must be having the same fear, because he brings in Mo for four quick outs and gets them.
Back at the hotel, I check e-mail. There is one from Kim Jones. I had followed up and asked if she would be available for lunch on either Friday or Saturday of next week, when we are in KC.
“No, sorry, neither will work. Kim.”
That is her entire response. For a communicator, she is not very communicative.
I send her another e-mail. “Is there any time that would be convenient for you?”
It does not take long for her reply to land in my inbox.
“Jane: As I mentioned previously, I’m going to try to get back to you at some point.”
A smackdown! I am tempted to tell her not to bother trying, but if she is way busier than, say, John Sterling or Tyler Kepner, so be it.
Sunday is a day game—the last in the Tampa Bay series—and once again we are in box 212, row F, with Dan Wheeler’s family. We also have Delmon Young’s father, who has graying hair and a distinguished air.
Pettitte is pitching against Hammel.
Tampa Bay gets on the board in the top of the third with a solo shot by Navarro. I chat with Norman Wheeler, Dan’s father. He says his son used to play for Houston before being traded to the Rays for Ty Wigginton.
“Did he like playing for the Astros?” I ask.
“Yeah,” says Norman. “He’s still friends with Andy Pettitte. They had a nice hug when they saw each other on Friday.”
“How about Clemens?”
Norman smiles. “No hug.”
“Did you always know Dan would be a professional ballplayer?”
He shakes his head. “Just like you never think you’ll win the lottery.”
“You’re really proud of him.”
“I am.” He grins. “He’s a great kid. And this team is better than you think. Just wait and see.”
Andy Phillips is hit by a pitch on his right hand and is sent to the hospital for an MRI. He is replaced at first by Betemit,which surprises me since Mientkiewicz is back with the team.