Confessions of a She-Fan

by Jane Heller

  He applauds mockingly. “I’ve been looking forward to this Boston series forever—the great seats for Sunday night, seeing my brother, all of it.”

  “But you’re sick!”

  “I’ll patch myself up the way I always do.” He sinks back against the pillows and coughs/wheezes/chokes. “You need to stop trying to control everything, especially me.”

  “Fine. So what do you want me to do?”

  “Whatever you want. I’m staying. There are risks in life.”

  It is raining on Saturday morning. My first thought is whether Michael is feeling any better, but I don’t give him the satisfaction of asking. Instead,I muse out loud whether there will be baseball and whether I will find any takers for tomorrow night’s tickets.

  “Actually, why don’t I just give them to Jake and his girlfriend?” I say. Jake is his brother Geoff’s son and an avid Sox fan. I am proving what a saintly individual I am.

  “They’ll be very appreciative,” Michael says with a trace of a smile and calls his brother with the news. After he hangs up, he volunteers that he still feels crummy, but the fever is gone. “So. We’re good?” This is his way of apologizing.

  “We’re good.” This is my way of apologizing.

  Today’s game is on Fox, so it has a 3:55 start. Our bleachers seats are better than last night’s—section 37, row 25, in dead center field. The sun has emerged and it is a glorious, if chilly, afternoon. Michael zips up my red jacket and tucks my hair inside the hood.

  It is Beckett versus Wang, who can’t be thrilled about Giambi playing first base again—not with all the ground balls his sinkers induce.

  In the top of the first, Jeter cracks a homer and the Yankees draw first blood. The Red Sox get the run back in the bottom of the inning on a Lowell single that scores Pedroia.

  Wang is not sharp at all. He hits Youkilis on the right wrist in the bottom of the fifth, and “Yook” comes out of the game. Ellsbury, who goes in to run for him, moves to third on Ortiz’s single. Drew’s base hit scores Ellsbury for 2–1.

  The Yankees bats are stone cold today. Beckett is at 93 pitches in the top of the sixth, and yet all they can manage are three straight groundouts.

  In the bottom of the sixth, Hinske tries to score on Pedroia’s grounder to Cano and barrels into Posada at the plate. Jorge is dazed but somehow holds on to the ball for the out. Ellsbury singles, scoring Crisp, and Ortiz doubles, scoring Pedroia and Ellsbury. It is 5–1. Joe comes out to lift Wang, who looks disconsolate.

  Beckett hits Giambi with a pitch on the right elbow in the top of the seventh—obvious retaliation for the Youkilis thing—and the umpire warns both benches. Otherwise, the Yankees don’t do much. It is absurd how feeble they are tonight. are tonight. I would say they are headed for certain defeat, but I said the same thing last night and look how that turned out.

  In the bottom of the seventh, our bullpen is an abomination. Does anyone know how to throw strikes? After Edwar walks Drew and retires Variate, Joe replaces him with Villone, who promptly walks Hinske. Joe comes back out looking really pissed and calls for Bruney, last night’s winning pitcher. Crisp doubles, scoring Drew. Lugo walks. Joe makes another trip to the mound, this time to summon Sean Henn. Ellsbury singles, scoring Crisp and Lugo. Big Sloppy walks, loading the bases for Lowell. Out pops Joe. He signals for Ohlendorf, who walks Lowell on four pitches, scoring Ellsbury for 9–1.

  In the eighth, the crowd sings along to “Sweet Caroline,” complete with the “So good, so good, so good” routine that makes me want to stick needles in my eyes. eyes. Ohlendorf gives up a solo homer to Hinske for 10–1, which is the final score.

  As I listen to the “Yankees suck” chants that rain down from every corner of Fenway, I can only shake my head. I should have followed my instincts and gone back to Santa Barbara. God is such a kidder.

  “I’m hungry,” says Michael, as we head for the exits. “Where should we go to eat?”

  “Back to the hotel,” I say, entwining my arm through his. “We’ll order up some chicken soup for you.”

  “No room service,” he says. “We’re going out.”

  I do not protest.

  We decide on the Ritz-Carlton, since it looked appealing last night and is right around the corner from the Hyatt. We snag the last table for two.

  “Good evening, young lady.” The waiter appears and greets me with a bow at the waist, reminding me of Mussina.

  “I’d love a glass of wine.”

  He brings me a glass of Syrah, which is delicious, but the salmon he brings later is so raw it is still flopping around on the plate. I send it back.

  Michael’s spaghetti Bolognese is perfectly cooked. He is eating with gusto when he looks toward the entrance to the restaurant.

  “Brian Cashman just walked in,” he whispers.

  I spin around to see if the person he thinks is Cashman is Cashman, but the wall of people waiting to get in blocks my view.

  “He looks pissed off that there’s a line,” Michael says, proud that he is the one to recognize somebody for a change.

  “If we want to hold on to this table we’ll have to keep ordering food, like we did at Spuntini. Are you feeling well enough for that?”

  “I’m fine.”

  Just then, the nearby table for four opens up. I fix my eyes on it,expecting to see Cashman sit there. The waiter comes back with my salmon and a speech about how busy the kitchen is. When he leaves, I see that there are now three men sitting at the table. None of them is Cashman, but one of them is a Yankee! Oh my God!

  “The guy with his back to us is Doug Mientkiewicz,” I whisper to Michael.

  He takes a look. “It is not.”

  “It is so.”

  “Mientkiewicz is bigger than that.”

  I roll my eyes—How can he doubt me after all this time?—and then zero in on Doug, who looks cute with his still-wet hair, black T-shirt, and blue jeans. He lifts his bottle of beer and I see that he is wearing his World Series ring from when he won the championship with Boston.

  “This is my chance!”

  “You can’t just go over and interrupt his meal. That’s tacky.”

  We spend the next 20 minutes debating exactly how I should approach Mientkiewicz. The maître d’ walks past our table a thousand times. I can feel how badly he wants to shove our food down our throats so we will pay up and let someone far more important take our place.

  “I’ve got it,” I say finally.

  I signal for the waiter. He must have been advised to hurry us out of there, because he swipes our plates and asks if we want the check.

  “We want dessert and coffee,” I say.

  Michael orders something chocolate and I order a Jamaican coffee with extra whipped cream. I hate Jamaican coffee.

  “Before you go,” I say to the waiter, nodding at Mientkiewicz, “I’d like you to send that man another bottle of whatever he’s having and put it on my tab.”

  “I can’t do that, young lady,” says the waiter. “I must get the gentleman’s permission first.”

  I have never heard of needing permission to buy someone a drink, but I hold my breath as I watch him lean down to talk to Mientkiewicz.

  “What if he doesn’t want another beer?” I whisper to Michael.

  “Not possible,” he says.

  Mientkiewicz turns around to look at me, hops up from his chair, and bounds over to our table. My heart explodes.

  “Hey,” he says with a big smile. “You don’t have to do this.”

  “Sure I do,” I hear myself say. He has dark, liquid eyes and is much more attractive with his cap off. He looks uncannily like a former boyfriend of mine, and I have this grotesque urge to throw my arms around him. “I’m a fan of yours. We both are.”

  “Old fans or new ones?” Doug asks.

  “Yankee fans.” I introduce myself and Michael. “I’m writing a book about the 2007 season and have been following the team since the All-Star break.”

  He listens attentively as
I talk about the book. Or maybe he is just being polite because I am supplying the Miller Lite. Who cares? I figured my Yankee would either be some dumb farm boy or an arrogant prick, but Doug is articulate and charming and very, very nice. He kneels down beside me—at my feet—and we continue to chat.

  “I really admire your play at first base,” I tell him. “The Yankees need your glove.”

  “I appreciate that,” he says.

  “And Peter Abraham and George King say you treat the media with respect.”

  “You know, people told me to be wary of the New York media when I first went there with the Mets. But when my son was born, I got notes from New York writers to congratulate me, whereas I got none from the writers in Minnesota—and I was a Twin for a long time.”

  Okay, maybe he didn’t use the word whereas. I was freaking out while he was talking. I do know that he asked again if I was sure about the beer, and I said absolutely.

  “Thanks very much.” He stands up out of his crouch and shakes my hand. “Can I return the favor?”

  I look at Michael. If there was ever an opening, this is it. I should say, “Yes, Doug. You can let me interview you for my book.” But I don’t want our first conversation to be all agenda driven and based on me wanting something from him. It is more appropriate—less tacky—to simply establish a connection tonight and follow up about the book another time. Well, and there is the fact that I am too scared to ask him for an interview. Michael is right: I am a pussy.

  “You can return the favor,” I say. “You can find a way to play first base tomorrow night. We don’t need any more errors over there.”

  He smiles, getting my drift about Iambi. “I hope I play,” he says and gives me a little salute as he sits back down at his table.

  I take a very long sip of the Jamaican coffee.

  “That stuff will keep you up all night,” Michael warns, knowing I am caffeinated without caffeine.

  I reach across the table and squeeze his hand. “You need to stop trying to control everything. There are risks in life.”

  Sunday is bright and sunny but cold. I turn up the heat in our room. Michael is popping Coricidins like M&M’s.

  I call Marty with the news that I have finally met my Yankee.

  “You told me there’s always one, and you were right,” I say.

  “So you set up an interview with Mientkiewicz?”

  “No.”

  “You explained that you want to interview him.”

  “No.”

  “You gave him your card and asked him to call you.”

  “No!”

  “What were you thinking?”

  “That I was finally having a real conversation with somebody on the team,” I say. “I’m a pussy, okay?”

  Marty tells me to contact Jason Zillo and tell him that I want to interview Mientkiewicz.

  “Right,” I say.“I will.”

  But I don’t. I don’t. What is the point? I e-mail Peter Abraham and ask if he would pass along Doug’s cell phone number.

  Susan Tofias meets us in the lobby of the Hyatt around 2:00. I love this woman. I spent almost as much time at her house growing up as I did at my own. We have not seen each other in 15 years, and yet the minute we start talking, it is as if no time has passed, and we spend 3 hours in the hotel’s lounge sharing reminiscences. I am thrilled my book is allowing us to have a long-overdue reunion.

  Michael’s brother Geoff arrives from Concord around 5:00 with his son Jake and Jake’s bubbly girlfriend, Brenna. Geoff is 7 years younger than Michael, but they seem like contemporaries. They are both professional photographers. They have the same beard and mustache and the same sweet nature.

  We all pile into Susan’s car, and she drives us to Fenway. The game, which is being televised on ESPN, has an 8:05 start, so we have time for an early dinner. The only hitch is that the restaurants are jammed. Jake and Brenna duck into a place on Lansdowne Street called Tequila Rain. The plan is for them to hold a table while Susan, Geoff, Michael, and I take a quick walk to Yaw key Way so Michael can shoot my photo. I am very Red Sox fan–ish in my red jacket, so none of the passersby abuse me. It is not until I don my Yankees cap for the picture that I start hearing it.

  “Hey, your team’s gonna lose tonight,” one Sox fan snipes.

  “Let’s go, wild card,”another mocks.

  “Jeter sucks A-Rod’s dick,” yells a third.

  I bury the cap in my bag once the photo shoot is over.

  At 7:30 Jake and Brenna head to the bleachers, and Geoff, Michael, and I follow Susan to the amazing seats her friends are letting us use. We are in a field box to the third base side of home plate. Since there is not much foul territory at Fenway, it feels as if we are on the field.

  Geoff is in a state of bliss. “These seats are the best I’ve ever had in my life.”

  He and Michael immediately call their sister Lawsie in Florida to tell her to look for them on ESPN. I see the same familiar Boston faces I always see when I watch games at Fenway on TV. They belong to captains of industry, corporate titans.

  A-Rod is warming up in front of our eyes.

  “I have to admit he’s gorgeous,” Susan says, in spite of the fact that she is a Red Sox fan. She went over to the dark side after marrying a Bostonian and raising her kids here.

  I am about to return the favor and say Lowell is handsome except for the Groucho Marx eyebrows, but I am interrupted by the announcement of the lineups. My heart races when I hear that Mientkiewicz is playing first base tonight! Did Joe finally figure out that the Yankees need some defense at first, or is Dougie in the lineup because of that magic beer I bought him at the Ritz last night?

  Schilling lumbers to the mound in the top of the first. He is facing Clemens, who is taking his turn in the rotation in spite of his sore elbow. The nearly 37,000 people in the stands are already on their feet. This is more than the rubber match of a Yankees–Red Sox series,more than a battle between two power pitchers in the twilight of their careers, more than the teams’ final contest of the 2007 season. It is the Yankees’ last shot at proving that Boston is not a lock for the division. If they ever needed to win a ball game, this is the one.

  Damon steps to the plate. He pops the ball up, causing a minor collision between Pedroia and Drew. Jeter singles. Abreu strikes out. A-Rod grounds out. I am very aware that the TV camera is on me whenever a right-handed batter is up; I can see the red light go on. But my hosts have no cause for concern. I will not embarrass them. I am staying quiet in my red jacket.

  In the bottom of the inning, Ellsbury flies to left—an easy out—but the ball pops out of Damon’s glove for an error. Pedroia flies out. Ellsbury steals second on Clemens. Ortiz walks. Lowell’s single brings Ellsbury home. The crowd jeers, “Ro-ger! Ro-ger!” After Drew flies out, Varitek hits a liner that Mientkiewicz spears, saving the Yankees two runs. The magic Miller Lite is coursing through his veins, giving him superhuman powers. He makes another great play that saves a run in the bottom of the second. And in the top of the third, he actually gets a hit.

  Schilling and Clemens are dealing, neither willing to fold. But the Yankees tie the score in the top of the fifth on a solo shot by Cano.

  In the bottom of the fifth, Mientkiewicz makes two more dazzling plays. One is on a line drive by Lugo, and the other is on a feed to Clemens on an Ellsbury ground out.

  The score is still tied at 1–1 in the bottom of the seventh, but Clemens is done. Joba walks onto the mound to a cascade of boos. He has to be a little nervous, despite his bravado. He goes to 3-and-2 on Hinsdale before allowing a double. As Crisp comes to the plate, a Sox fan jumps onto the field from the first-base side, sprints over to Hinske, and tries to high-five him. When Hinske turns his back, the fan steals Cano’s cap right off his head and races with it into left field, where he is chased and ultimately tackled by a couple of security guys. The incident provides a brief respite from the tension that has been building, but the intensity is back as soon as the fan is dragged off. J
oba retires Crisp, Lugo, and Ellsbury.

  As we head into the top of the eighth, the temperature has really dipped, and it is cold. Vendors from Legal Sea Foods come around selling“hot chow-dah,” and I consider buying some for Michael to warm him up. But he is having a blast, jawing back and forth with Geoff after every pitch. I am the one who is anxious. I have kept my promise and not even whispered a “Let’s go, Yankees.” I have maintained the neutrality of Switzerland. But I am squirming in my fancy seat. I pull the hood tighter over my head.

  In the top of the eighth with the score still knotted at 1 apiece, Mientkiewicz doubles down the left field line. Giambi bats for Molina and doubles off the centerfield wall, sending Dougie to third. Bronson Sardinha, a call-up from Scranton, pinch runs for Giambi. Damon grounds out, breaking his bat and spraying splinters everywhere. And then something momentous happens: Jeter homers, scoring Dougie and Sardinha. The Yankee fans in the ballpark go wild, unafraid of getting booed or punched out. Susan glares at me, as if to check that I am behaving. She need not worry. But I would have to be dead not to feel something.

  With the Yankees up 4–1, Francona pulls Schilling and brings in Lopez and Delcarmen to quell the insurgency.

  Joba is back for the bottom of the eighth. He strikes out Pedroia and gets Ortiz to fly out but gives up a homer to Lowell for 4–2.

  In the top of the ninth, I sit here thinking the Yankees can’t be content with a two-run lead. Not at Fenway. But I figure they can hit Gagne, who has been a disappointment in his short stay with the Red Sox. I am wrong. Gagne strikes out Posada and gets Cano and Melky to fly out. No insurance runs. No cushion. Nothing but a much-too-quick inning.

  Everybody is standing as Mo comes on for the bottom of the ninth. How many times has this scene played out before my eyes? Forever. Just never with me in attendance in the midst of what is now sheer bedlam. The Sox fans clap, chant, stomp. The noise is deafening. As I watch Mo turn his back to home plate to pray, I pray, too.

  “Dear God. Please watch over Mo and give his cutter location and movement. Amen.”

  Mo walks Varitek. The crowd goes berserk, smelling a comeback. The atmosphere is so frenzied and the moment so charged with electricity that I cover my hands over my eyes and peek out through my fingers. That is not showing partisanship, is it?