by Jane Heller
The Yankees win 9–2—their sixth straight victory.
There is medical news on Wednesday. Apparently, Clemens has a sore elbow. His MRI shows ligament damage, but he is penciled in to start Sunday’s big game in Boston. Michael doesn’t feel so great, either. He is still sneezing, and the weather here doesn’t help. It is cold and blustery. Where did summer go?
I don’t hear from Jason Zillo about getting together, so I e-mail him again.
Frustrated, I contact Rick Cerrone, the Yankees’ former media relations director. He is senior vice president at Dan Klores Communications, a PR firm in New York. He is as friendly as can be when I say that Tom Goodman suggested I get in touch.
“I should tell you right away I can’t talk about the Yankees,” he says. “It’s still too painful. When they didn’t renew my contract at the end of last year, it was like coming home and finding a note from my wife saying she left me for another man. I don’t have a team anymore. I just don’t have a team.”
“Can you tell me what happened?”
“I’ll just say that after 11 years on the job, making three times what I made when I started, they wanted to promote Jason, who had been my assistant. I was devastated. I was living my dream.”
“I’m sorry things ended that way for you.”
“Me, too.”
“Tell me something. Why is it so hard getting access to the Yankees?”
“Let me explain the job and maybe it’ll put Jason’s position in perspective for you,” he says. “My biggest challenge was that there were hundreds of people requesting this and that. Every single one of them knew who I was, but I didn’t know who every single one of them was. So whenever a request would come across my desk my motto was: ‘Nothing good can come of this.’ When someone asks for access, you just never know what will come of it.”
“I’m not trying to bring the organization down,” I say. “I’m just writing a book about my relationship with them.”
“If I were in charge, you would have access. I’ll put in a good word with Jason.”
Our seats at the Rogers Centre tonight are in section 130A—along the third base line and in the front row. We have finally made it to the railing. There is no one between A-Rod and me except a Mountie.
Mussina is making his first start since August 27, and I have no idea what to expect from him.
Damon is the DH tonight, and when he strikes out in the top of the first, the cretin next to me yells, “Hey, Jesus. Why’d you cut off your hair?”
The cretin is a 30-year-old Yankee fan from New Jersey, now living in Toronto. He hates Damon for being a former Red Sock, but he reserves his deepest venom for A-Rod.
“He’s a pretty boy who’s as gay as Mike Piazza.”
I was too harsh by singling out the idiots in Detroit who harassed the Mariners fan for being a Jap-loving gay Jew. This guy from New Jersey is no higher on the food chain. When the speakers blast the “Mexican Hat Dance,” he says, “It’s a stupid Chico song, but it’s better than the Jew song they play at Yankee Stadium.” I assume he is referring to “Hava Nagila.”
Mussina is brilliant, holding the Jays scoreless through seven-plus innings, allowing the batters to do their jobs. The Yanks are up 4–0 when Joba pitches the bottom of the eighth and gives up the first run of his major league career, albeit unearned, for 4–1. Mo notches his 26th save.
The Yankees win their seventh straight game. This is the streak I have been waiting for.
On Thursday there is still no response from Jason Zillo.
Our seats for tonight’s finale at the Rogers Centre are in section 113A, row 3—back on the first-base side. Ian Kennedy goes against A. J. Burnett—a tough matchup for the kid. Betemit is at first, which makes me wonder yet again why the Yankees bothered to sign Mientkiewicz.
After the Jays score on a double by the Big Hurt in the first, both pitchers really settle in. Burnett is nasty, but Kennedy is not giving anything away, either. He has a one-hitter through seven innings. With the score tied at 1–1, Joe pulls him for Viz. The Yankees don’t get to Burnett in the top of the ninth, even though he is at 120 pitches. Joe sends Britton out for the bottom half and I scratch my head. Is he saving everyone for Boston? Britton gives up singles to Rios and the Big Hurt, and we lose 2–1—a game we could and should have won.
The Yankees are coming down the stretch now, with less than three more weeks to go in the season. The series in Boston this weekend will mean some-thing—well, it always means something between the Yankees and Red Sox—and could determine whether there will be October baseball for both teams.
As for me, I am really looking forward to this weekend. I will see my old Scarsdale friend Susan, whom I have not seen since Michael and I got married. I will see Michael’s brother Geoff, whom I have not seen since we moved to California. And I will see Boston, which I have not seen since the ’60s, when I sat on the floor of some hippie-folkie place and listened to Richie Havens sing Dylan songs. It is not only that the clock is ticking on my quest to meet a Yankee. It is also ticking on Michael’s health; his cold has moved into his chest. We are coming down a stretch of our own.
Friday is both getaway day and game day.
The Hyatt in downtown Boston is around the corner from Boston Common, which means it is around the corner from the Ritz-Carlton, which means it is around the corner from where the Yankees are staying.
“May we have a quiet room?” I ask the man at the front desk when we check in.
“Certainly.” He hands me our keys.
After a short nap, we walk to the Boylston Street Station. The early evening weather is clear and cold. I am thankful Michael and I packed our winter jackets, and we bundle up. By the way, mine is red.
“Everyone will assume I’m a Red Sox fan,” I say as we ride the C train on the green line to Kenmore station. “No one will throw anything at me.”
“Pussy,” says Michael.
We get off the subway and wind our way down the narrow streets toward Fenway. Crowds are lined up outside various pubs and restaurants, which are already bulging with people. More crowds congregate around the street vendors—the “Sausage King” seems to be a big favorite. It is as if they are all attending a giant block party.
We enter through Gate C and head to the Big Concourse, where a food court offers several concessions. I end up with the dreaded chicken tenders. Michael gets a double order of hot dogs since each one is so small. He says they are limp and cold and nestled in a mushy bun. The food here is beyond disgusting.
“But we aren’t here for the food,” he says cheerfully as we go looking for our seats. He loves Fenway. He thinks it is the coolest of all the ballparks, because it is historic and quirky and reminds him of Little League.
We find the bleachers. Actually, it is not the bleachers that are hard to find. It is our seats. They are way up in section 43, row 40—the two seats at the very end of the row, in right field. One of the people we have to step over is an obese woman who is chain-smoking. There are no ushers or security guards around, and I am not about to lecture her about her lung cancer stick. She is way bigger than I am.
Within minutes the chain-smoker is joined by three other people who seem—how can I put this delicately?—mentally challenged in a just-out-of-the-asylum sort of way. They move down the row and fill in the empty seats between the chain-smoker and us. One of them is a man with a gigantic scar that runs down the middle of his forehead. As soon as he lands in his seat, he slumps over and shuts his eyes. Another is a tall, creepy, heavyset man—we are talking 6'5" and 280 pounds minimum—with pockmarked skin and a long, brown braid. He is wearing baggy gray sweatpants, along with a beat-up leather jacket. He takes the seat next to Michael. Well, he takes part of Michael’s seat, too, because he is too large to fit into his own seat.
“Hello. My name is Barry,” he says to us, speaking in a very slow, slurred speech. “What’s your name?”
“Michael,” says my husband.
“Jane,” I
say.
Barry stares off into space.
The other member of their group is a woman who sits between Barry and Scarface. She is wearing a white uniform under her wool coat. She reaches into her purse for a vial of pills and dispenses them to Barry, Scarface, and the chain-smoker.
There are small pockets of Yankee fans in the bleachers, and they are barraged with “Yankees suck” chants. I, on the other hand, am warm and safe in my red jacket. I even pretend to be a Boston fan. Every few minutes I shout, “Let’s go, Red Sox!” and nobody bothers me.
I take a long look around the ballpark. It is certainly unusual with its Green Monster. But the fans are right on top of the field. What is so awe-inspiring about that? Yankee Stadium is regal, imposing. This place is puny—like a toy park.
The lineups are announced, and I am surprised to hear Giambi is playing first. Jason is a nice guy, by all the beat writers’ accounts. But Mientkiewicz is the one who can catch the ball at first base, so why not use him in an important series like this?
The pitching match up is Pettitte versus Dice-K.
Here we go.
After Damon beats out an infield single, Dice-K throws high and tight to Jeter. A-Rod gets plunked on the first pitch he sees. No warnings are issued.
In the bottom of the first, Lugo reaches on an error by Giambi, who really does have lobster claws for hands. But it is in the bottom of the second that Boston gets on the board. Ellsbury, the rookie who is playing center instead of Crisp, singles home Youkilis for 1–0.
Andy is at 58 pitches in the bottom of the third. He is laboring. Drew reaches on Giambi’s second error, scoring Lowell. Boston goes ahead 2–0.
The Yankees score their first run in the top of the fourth when Matsui’s triple scores Posada.
The Red Sox come right back in the bottom of the inning against Pettitte, who allows three more runs for 5–1.
Barry, our new friend from the asylum, has been relatively comatose during the game, but he wakes up to cheer for Pedroia.
“Dustin got off to a slow start, but he’s gonna be great for many years,” he tells us.
“You’re a big Red Sox fan, huh?” I say.
“I love the Red Sox,” he says with a child’s adoration. “Do you?”
“Yes,” I say.
“Of course we do,” says Michael.
“Are you having a good time tonight?” he asks, his eyes hopeful.
It is such a sweet question and it is said with such earnestness that it takes me aback, and I reexamine my impression of Barry. He is very probably institutionalized, his life a complete mess, and yet he wants to know if we are having a good time. He is anything but creepy.
“We’re having a very good time,” I say. “Fenway is quite a place.”
He nods. “I’ve never been here before.”
“Really?” I say. He loves the team so much but has never been able to attend a game. How sad is that?
He nods again. “This is the best night of my whole, whole life.”
His words are heartbreaking. Maybe I am nobody’s number one fan. Maybe Barry is the real thing. He shames me with his lack of pretense. I am deeply moved by him, the way I was deeply moved by the man on the Royals Express. It is no small feat for either of them to get to the ballpark. And yet they not only show up but also don’t boast about their team or disparage the opposition. Baseball is still magical for them.
I stop being cynical with my “Let’s go, Red Sox!” chants. I keep quiet and let everybody boo the Yankees, who deserve booing tonight. The Red Sox are on course to win in humiliating fashion.
Veras relieves Pettitte in the bottom of the fifth. Two beach balls are batted around in our section. So much for my belief that Red Sox fans are purists when it comes to this sort of thing. Are rally monkeys next?
Dice-K departs in the top of the sixth, having thrown 120 pitches. Damon bloops a single off Timlin, scoring Posada for 5–2, but it feels like too little too late.
The bottom of the sixth brings more mediocrity for the Yankees. After Lugo singles off Veras, Ortiz is intentionally walked. Lowell flies to right, and Abreu nearly nails Big Sloppy wandering off first, but “lobster claws” can’t handle the ball. ball. Youkilis singles, scoring Lugo.
Joe replaces Veras with Sean Henn. Drew singles, scoring Ortiz for 7–2. The Red Sox are piling on. It is grotesque.
After Lopez and Okajima shut the Yanks down in the top of the seventh, I tell Michael I think we should leave. He has been coughing and blowing his nose and looks pale. I am worried about him.
“Leave?” he says, shocked that I would even make the suggestion.
“I don’t want you getting any sicker.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“I’ve heard that before.”
“This is Yankees–Red Sox!”
I feel his forehead. It is hot. He should be inside, not sitting out here where the temperature is dropping by the minute.
“Our bullpen is about to give up a hundred runs,” I say. “What’s the point of sitting here and watching that? I need to get you to the hotel.”
“What if the Yankees make a comeback?”
“Right. And pigs can fly. Let’s go.”
He is gripped by a sneezing jag and starts to shiver. He concedes that he feels like shit. But leaving is not easy; we have to forge a path over Barry.
Michael taps him on the shoulder. “Would you mind getting up for a second so we can pass?”
Barry obliges. He is wobbly and it takes him a while, but he stands. He asks if we remember his name.
“Sure,” Michael says. “Barry,right?”
He grins. “Sorry, but I don’t remember yours. Is it Joe?”
“It’s Michael, but don’t worry about it. It was a pleasure to meet you.”
Barry smiles at me. “Good-bye, Kathy.”
Once we escape the ballpark, it is a quick subway ride to our stop at Boylston Street. From there we only have to walk past the Ritz-Carlton—
“Wait,” I say, stopping in my tracks in front of the Ritz’s restaurant and bar. Through the large window I can see a flat-screen television showing what I assume are highlights. ESPN broadcasted the game, so they are probably doing a wrap-up. “Let’s check out the final score.”
Michael and I move closer to the window and peer inside.
“Oh my God!” I say.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” says Michael.
It is not a highlights reel. The game is still in progress! It is the eighth inning and the score in 8–7 in favor of the Yankees!
“How is this possible?” I say. “We left in the bottom of the seventh, and that was almost an hour ago.”
“I’m gonna kill you for making me leave.”
We stand there in the street with our noses pressed against the glass.
“What’s going on?” asks a passerby.
“Yankees–Red Sox!” Michael says. “The Yankees are winning 8–7!”
“No way!” the guy says. “When I left Fenway they were losing.”
“We know,”Michael and I say.
More and more people gather at the window to watch. The maître d’ of the restaurant flicks his wrist to shoo us away. We are annoying the patrons.
“Let’s make a run for it,” says Michael.
“Right,” I say. “Go.”
When we get to the Hyatt’s bar, we are not alone. Everyone has heard about the turn of events in the game, and now we are all glued to the TV. A waiter brings everybody up to date: the back-to-back homers by Giambi and Cano against Okajima in the top of the eighth; the walk to Melky and the double by Damon; Jeter’s single and Abreu’s double against Pap Smear to tie the game at 7–7; the single by A-Rod that put the Yankees on top 8–7.
We are now watching Pap Smear stalk off the mound in the top of the eighth and curse furiously into his glove.
Viz pitches a scoreless eighth, and Mo comes in for the ninth. When he gives up a leadoff single to Drew, I squeeze Michael’s hand s
o tightly I nearly cut off his circulation.
“It’ll be okay,” he says. “Have a little faith.”
Mo strikes out Varitek, gets Kielty to fly out, and strikes out Ellsbury for his 27th save.
It is an improbable game. A game that lasts 4 hours and 43 minutes. A game that brings the Yankees to within 4½ of Boston. A game that could change the course of the season.
Upstairs in our room, I help Michael into bed and take his temperature. It is 101. After I bring him some Tylenol, I sit on the bed next to him. I take a deep breath and feel tears prick at my eyes.
“It’s over,” I say. “We’re going home.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The Yankees just had the most miraculous comeback—the best game of the year. I’ve had my fun. I’ve seen them turn their season around. I’ve been part of the traveling carnival. But none of that is worth winding up in the ER at Mass General.”
“It’s just a cold!” Michael coughs for one solid minute.
“With you, there is no ‘just.’ Remember that fever you had last year? It started off as no big deal. The next thing I know you’re being carted away in an ambulance. And don’t give me the Roger Maris story.”
He glares at me. “If you want to go back to Santa Barbara, be my guest. I’m staying.”
“Oh, yeah?”I get up and glare back at him, the tears rolling down my cheeks now. “You’re putting me in an impossible situation and you do it all the time and it’s not fair!”
“Poor baby.”
“You don’t take care of yourself, and I’m the one who suffers! I give up my dreams to clean up your messes!”
He sits up in bed, his face flushed with fever and fury. “Don’t suffer on my account. Nobody asked you to do a goddamn thing. You treat me like a fucking child!”
“You act like one. I’m supposed to be researching a book. Instead, I’m standing here worrying about you!”
“Listen, I’m having the time of my life. These games are my joy, my passion. Do what you want, but I’m not leaving. I’m finishing what we started.”
“MAYBE YOU DIDN’T HEAR ME,” I yell, because I hate him and love him at the same stupid second. “I said I was willing to give all this up for you.”