Confessions of a She-Fan

by Jane Heller

  As the players converge on each other near the mound, I stand with my hands pressed together in the prayer position, thanking God that the Yankees did it. They were eight games under .500 on May 29 and went on to become the best team in the league with the highest winning percentage.

  On Thursday morning, Michael and I are reading all the accounts of last night’s festivities when the Vinoy’s fire alarm makes us jump. We are told to evacuate immediately.

  We throw on some clothes and grab our carry-on bags and computers and stand outside in the hall looking bewildered. John Sterling pops out of his room in his T-shirt, sweatpants, and bed hair.

  “It’s probably a false alarm,” he says, rubbing his eyes. “I’m going back to sleep.”

  “Did you have a good time at the celebration last night?”I ask.

  “Oh, it was great. After the celebration at the ballpark—they only use cheap champagne for that—I went to dinner with Joe and everybody, and we drank Dom Pérignon.”

  “Sounds wonderful.”

  “How’s everything going with the book?”

  “I’m trying to interview Doug Mientkiewicz.”

  “Doug would be perfect,” he says. “He’s smart and charming. Is Jason setting it up?”

  “Gene Orza is on it.”

  Our seats at Tropicana Field for tonight’s series finale are the same—section 108, row L. Joe is resting most of the regulars. He is conceding the division title to the Red Sox and preparing the team for the postseason. I know this is the correct move, but I would have enjoyed making Boston sweat a little.

  Hughes is facing Kazmir in what is the Devil Rays’ last home game of the season. The season tickets holders say good-bye to each other with those magic words: “Maybe next year.”

  In the top of the fourth, with both pitchers throwing scoreless ball, my cell phone rings.

  “It’s Charles Wenzelberg,” he says. “I’m at Shea working the Mets game, but I wanted you to know that I did save you a cork from last night’s party.”

  I am so excited that I spontaneously rise to my feet.

  “Sit the fuck down, lady!” the man behind me yells.

  I sit back down.

  “Are you going to the postseason?” Charles asks.

  “You bet. It looks like we’ll be starting off in Cleveland.”

  “I’ll bring you the cork.”

  I am floating. I know, I know. We are talking about a cork, not the Dom Pérignon. Back in April when I was furious at the Yankees, I never dreamed they would have anything to celebrate, much less with me in attendance. And now a member of the traveling carnival thought enough of my devotion to the team to save me a souvenir from their most triumphant night of the year.

  Hughes goes seven strong innings, and the Yankees win 3–1.

  Back at the hotel it is dead quiet, the way it always is after the Yanks take off on their charter and fly away. We will be joining them in Baltimore, just like we did in July. It was our first stop of the regular season, and now it will be our last.

  On Friday morning, Michael and I land at Dulles, rent a car, and drive an hour to the Renaissance Harborfront on East Pratt Street, where we are staying along with the Yankees. the Yankees. The lobby is filled with men, women, and children in Joba jerseys, the latest must-have garment for a Yankee fan.

  I ask the woman at the front desk for a quiet room. She gives me one on nine, where I find a uniformed policeman sitting in a chair near the elevator. I am not only at the Yankees’ hotel; I am on their floor.

  Michael and I hold hands as we walk over to Camden Yards. It is a beautiful night—clear and warm with a nearly full moon. We stop at Boog’s Barbecue. There is a long line, but I have been salivating for the pit turkey sandwich, baked beans, and spicy sauce for 2 months.

  “You’re not having any?” I ask Michael, who is not loading up.

  “Better not,” he says.

  Our seats are in the upper deck—section 340, row DD—with a really good view over home plate.

  Mussina is pitching against Leicester.

  In the top of the eighth, with the Yanks up 9–6, the scoreboard tells us that the Red Sox have beaten Minnesota. If we lose this game, Boston wins the division.

  Mo comes in for the bottom of the ninth to nail down the victory—and blows it. Baltimore ties the game at 9–9, and we go into extra innings.

  The bats do nothing in the top of the 10th, and Joe brings in Edwar to pitch the bottom half. half. He loads the bases, then strikes out Millar on a wicked changeup, only to give up a bunt RBI single to Mora.

  The Yanks lose 10–9, and there goes the division. I remind myself that the Red Sox were the wild-card team when they won the World Series in ’04. We can do it, too.

  It is a glorious afternoon on Saturday with blue skies and temperatures in the 70s. I visit the Baltimore Basilica, a local landmark reputed to be the first cathedral ever built in America after the adoption of the Constitution. It is one of the most breathtaking churches I have ever seen.

  I mount the steps and peek in the open door. There is not a single other tourist or worshipper this morning. I have the place all to myself.

  I enter the cathedral and give myself a tour, admiring the inspirational paintings on the white domed ceiling. And then I take a seat in one of the pews and breathe in the silence. I let my mind empty, except to appreciate the peace and serenity of my surroundings.

  I lower my head.

  “Dear God,” I say. “Thank you for this extraordinary adventure; for my being able to watch the team I love with the husband I love by my side; for the family and friends I’ve reconnected with and for the new friends I’ve made. And thank you for getting the Yankees into the play-offs—no small miracle there, right?”

  There is a mob scene in the lobby of the Renaissance by the time I get back. Yankee fans are everywhere.

  Upstairs in our room, I check e-mail. There is one from Suzy Waldman. I had e-mailed her about getting together in Cleveland, but she explains that a lot of people from the Yankees’ “Tampa faction” will be there, so she will not be available. I am finally getting it that the dinner we had in Detroit was not the forging of a friendship.

  Michael and I walk to Camden Yards for tonight’s game. There is the usual long line for Boog’s Barbecue, and Boog himself is there.

  “Hey, Boog,” I say. “Who do you like in the postseason?”

  He smirks at my Yankees shirt. “Not your team.”

  Our seats are in section 316, row MM—on the right-field side. Pettitte is going against Daniel Cabrera. The “B” team is in again so the regulars can rest up for Cleveland.

  It is one of those ugly games where neither side is playing well. The Yankees win 11–10.

  Sunday is a quiet day, as it always is when the Yankees leave town. By the time Michael and I head out for the afternoon game at Camden Yards, the traveling carnival has checked out of the Renaissance Harborfront. They will fly back to New York after the game and arrive in Cleveland on Tuesday. I miss them already.

  The afternoon is perfect for baseball—in the 70s, without a cloud in the sky. Our seats are in section 360, row BB, on the left field side. Following tradition, Joe hands over the managerial duties for the last game of the season to one of the veteran players. Today it is Jorge who will manage. Sean Henn is facing off against Brian Burres.

  The Yankee fan next to me is a contractor from New Jersey.

  “The Yankees were my only constant as a kid,” he tells me. “I never give up on them.”

  “You have faith,” I say.

  “You got that right.”

  The Yankees score in the first after A-Rod singles Jeter home. The Orioles tie the score in the bottom of the second on Millar’s solo homer.

  It is 4–1 Yankees in the third when A-Rod comes out of the game and gets a huge ovation. Talk about a monster season—a .314 batting average, 54 homers, and 156 RBIs.

  I check the scoreboard and see that the Mets are about to be bounced out of th
e season, losing badly to the Phillies. I call my friend Marty to offer my condolences.

  “They’re playing like dead people!” he rants, the sounds of a sports bar in the background. “Why should I even care about them?”

  “Marty, come on. You don’t mean it.”

  “And Willie! He’s just not motivating them!”

  Is this how I sounded when I wanted the divorce?

  With the Yankees ahead by 10–3 in the bottom of the ninth, Farnsworth serves up a homer, then retires the O’s to end the game—and the season.

  “Well, that’s it,” I say to the Yankee fan next to me.

  “On to Cleveland.” He checks stats on his PDA. “They finished with 968 runs, the most for the franchise since 1937.”

  I worry about those 968 runs. It is always the bats that go cold in the postseason. I wish I could set aside, like, 50 of them for next week.

  Michael and I have dinner at Phillips, a seafood place overlooking the harbor.

  “Where are you guys from?” the waiter asks.

  I almost say “New York” but catch myself. “California,” I tell him.

  “I’ve only been to California once,” he says. “Someday I’ll get back out there.”

  Someday I will, too. Just not yet. Please, not yet.

  AL EAST STANDINGS/SEPTEMBER 30

  TEAM W L PCT GB

  BOSTON 96 66 .593 —

  NEW YORK 94 68 .580 2.0

  TORONTO 83 79 .512 13.0

  BALTIMORE 69 93 .426 27.0

  TAMPA BAY 66 96 .407 30.0

  Week 27 October 1, 2007

  Play-off baseball is all about breaks.

  Our plane lands in Cleveland around 8:30 on Monday night. It is wet and cold—very different from the summer weather we had here in August.

  We check in to another Renaissance, this one in Tower City, the same downtown complex where the Yankees will be staying at the Ritz-Carlton. The Renaissance is a beautiful old hotel, built in 1918, according to the brochure handed to me by the woman at the front desk. I ask her for a quiet room, and she puts us in a quiet suite—a “parlor suite,” which consists of a living room with a wet bar and a tiny bedroom. It is dark with low ceilings, and it has the musty smell of a hotel that was built in 1918. But it will be our home for the next 5 nights, so we settle in.

  On Tuesday I wake up with no clue where I am. I bang my head on the wall of our parlor-suite bedroom, mistaking it for the way to the bathroom. This is the downside of staying at one hotel after another. You are at the new place, but you think you are still at the old place.

  I go off to have a shampoo and blow-dry at the Marengo Institute, which sounds as if it should be a think tank or a medical research center but is the salon the concierge recommended. I need to look my best for the play-offs.

  Later, as Michael and I are enjoying our pasta dinner at Bice, an Italian restaurant next to the Ritz-Carlton, I spot Mussina walking in with a man I don’t recognize. They are escorted into a back room, and I wonder if Joe has convened a team dinner, the way he did at Spuntini in Toronto. But it is just Moose and his buddy. I am thrilled to see him—and thrilled the Yankees have arrived in town.

  Back in our parlor suite at the Renaissance, I write another piece for the New York Times sports section—one that will put a happy ending on my “trilogy” of essays about my relationship with the Yanks. When I am finished I read it to Michael.

  “Is it okay?”

  “It needs to be funnier.”

  On Wednesday it is funnier. I e-mail the piece to Tom Jolly.

  By the afternoon I am restless. I take a walk. It is overcast again but up in the 70s, which everyone says is unusual for October. Tomorrow is supposed to be in the 80s and sunny—freakishly warm weather.

  At the corner of Superior and 9th Street, I come upon the Catholic church I visited back in August. It is not nearly as grand as the Basilica in Baltimore, but it is beautiful just the same. I go inside and sit down in the exact spot where I sat last time. There is only one other person in the church: an elderly white-gloved woman who is sobbing and dabbing at her eyes with a lacy handkerchief. I immediately add her to my list of people to pray for.

  Once I have requested blessings for all my real-life loved ones, I turn my attention to my pinstriped loved ones. “Dear God. Please let the Yankees sweep the Indians. Please let A-Rod show everyone he isn’t a postseason choker. Please let our starting pitching hold up. And please don’t put Farnsworth into a game.

  “Oh, and please let Tom Jolly at the New York Times think my essay is funny. Amen.”

  Back at the Renaissance there is an e-mail from Tom Jolly. He says he will find a spot for my piece in Sunday’s Times.

  Michael and I celebrate by ordering room service. We watch the Red Sox beat the Angels in the first game of their series and boo both teams.

  Speaking of celebrating, tomorrow is our 15th wedding anniversary. We have no plans to exchange gifts or commemorate the big day except to be in our seats for game one of Yankees–Indians.

  ALDS: Game One October 4, 2007

  I texted Alex to tell him to keep his head right. I said, “I’m proud of you. You’ve had arguably the best year in the history of the game. You’ve left no questions unanswered. So just go out there and enjoy this.”

  Thursday is finally here. No more resorting to checking the scores and schedules of other teams. No more wondering what the atmosphere at Jacobs Field will be like. Today is the day, and I feel the excitement as soon as I step outside our room.

  I run into George King of the Post standing by the front desk. He has just checked in.

  I see Paul O’Neill talking on his cell phone. He is here for the YES Network.

  The carnival has definitely come to town.

  I get ready for the 6:30 game early, donning my Mo T-shirt and Yankees visor and leaving my Yankees jacket behind. Since it is unseasonably warm, I expect to be sweating, not shivering.

  At the entrance to Jacobs Field, they are handing out tacky white towels so we can wave them around. No thanks. The red, white, and blue bunting draped over the railings looks festive, but there is something phony about this capacity crowd. When I was here in August, the Indians had to beg people to come to the ballpark. Now there are about 45,000 men and women walking around in red T-shirts that say “It’s Tribe Time Now!” Where were they when their team was struggling?

  Our seats are in section 138, row CC—on the field instead of in the bleachers this time, on the first-base side. There are a few other Yankee fans in our section, but mostly it is a home crowd and a very loud one. They are in a frenzy as they watch clips from the regular season on the scoreboard.

  The ceremonial first pitch is thrown out by the fan who sits in the top row of the bleachers and bangs on his drum. An American flag the size of the entire field is carried out. And after the musicians from the Cleveland Orchestra perform the national anthem, a profusion of red, white, and blue balloons is released into the sky. It is a great spectacle and very patriotic, but I am itching to start the game already.“Let’s go, Yankees!” I shout and get filthy looks from all sides. “LET’S GO, YANKEES!”

  Wang versus Sabathia. CC is a Cy Young candidate and is hell on left-handed hitters, but we are the Yankees.

  Damon leads off with a line drive that lands in the right-field seats. It is called foul. Joe comes out to argue. There is a little TV monitor above our heads, and I can see the replay: Damon’s ball was fair. The umpires confer and reverse the call. 1–0 Yankees. Abreu and A-Rod both walk, but they are stranded when Posada and Matsui can’t bring them in. At least we have made Sabathia work. He has thrown more than 25 pitches in the inning.

  In the bottom of the first, Wang hits Sizemore in the foot. Not a great start. Cabrera hits into a double play, but Hafner walks. Martinez singles. Garko singles, scoring Hafner. Peralta walks, loading the bases for Kenny Fucking Lofton, who singles, scoring Martinez and Garko. It is 3–1 and Wang has no clue. “Let’s go Yankees!” I chant, loude
r and with more urgency. I am drowned out by the Indians fans. They are not just loud; they are crazed. They are on their feet for every single pitch, and the decibel level is off the scale.

  In the top of the third, CC is at 50 pitches. He is walking batters. The Yankees are forcing him to throw strikes. But they can’t seem to take advantage of his wildness.

  In the bottom of the third, Cabrera homers for 4–1. It is still early. The Yankees will come back. They have before, and they will again.

  Cano homers in the top of the fourth for 4–2.

  Shelley bats for Mientkiewicz in the top of the fifth. He singles. Damon walks. Wedge comes out to talk to Sabathia, who is at 94 pitches. CC stays in the game. Abreu lines a double, scoring Shelley. 4–3. A-Rod is intentionally walked, loading the bases for Posada with one out. Okay, Jorge. Now would be a really good time to crush one into the gap or put one in the seats. Jorge works the count to 3-and-0. “Hip, hip, Jor-hay!” I scream. Inexplicably he swings—what the fuck?—and misses. And ends up striking out. Matsui pops up, but it is Posada’s at bat that has knocked the wind out of me.

  Martinez homers in the bottom of the fifth with Cabrera on base for 6–3. Peralta doubles over Cano’s head, and Lofton steps in to chants of “Ken-ny! Ken-ny!” He was a surly bastard when he played for the Yankees, but they love him here in Cleveland. He singles, scoring Peralta for 7–3. As chants of “Yankees suck” rain down on Wang, Joe comes to take him out. I heard that his family flew in from Taiwan for this game. They should have stayed home. Joe signals for Ross Ohlendorf, who has never pitched in this sort of pressure-cooker atmosphere. Gutierrez walks and Blake doubles to left, scoring Lofton and Gutierrez. 9–3.

  The Indians have a new pitcher in the top of the sixth, and I should be relieved to be rid of Sabathia. But Perez is tough, too. He retires the side in order, with two strikeouts. The stadium speakers blare that idiotic song “Hang On Sloopy” with everybody shouting “O-H-I-O.” It is worse than “Sweet Caroline.”