Faithful

by Stephen King

  Ainsworth’s upset and can’t find the plate now, walking Ortiz. He goes 3-1 on Manny before Manny flies to center. It’s well hit but should be caught. Ainsworth takes a few steps toward the dugout, watching Matos, who holds up both arms as if beseeching the sky. He’s lost it in the twilight. It hits the track by the base of the wall and bounces high, giving Ortiz more than enough time to chug around. 6–0. Millar rips a single to center. Matos has a shot at Manny, but his throw is off-line.

  And that’s it, that’s more than enough. Johnny goes 5 for 5 and makes a spectacular grab, going over the fence in front of the O’s bullpen to take a three-run homer away from David Segui; David Ortiz cranks a three-run shot down the line in right; Lowe throws well, and Pokey and Bellhorn do a nice job behind him; even Mendoza gets some work in; but really it’s a one-inning game. It’s the kind of win that makes you complacent—that makes you see the O’s as a bad club.

  It’s not true. Like the opener, it’s just one game. We still have to beat them tomorrow with Wake to take the series.

  April 8th

  SK: How about Damon’s catch last night? I saw it on tape. That was my game to miss, except for the eighth and ninth. Dinner with friends. Isn’t it annoying, the way life keeps intruding on baseball?

  SO: Besides Johnny having a big night, you didn’t miss much. I think Baltimore needs to rethink trying to change Melvin Mora into a third baseman. He’s just lost out there—like Todd Walker, no instincts. Then after Lee Mazzilli and the media ream him out, he gets to go home to his wife and their two-year-old quints. No wonder he looks like he’s going to break into tears any second.

  You want to hear life intruding on baseball? I’ve been planning for months to take T to Chicago for our twentieth anniversary—got the plane tickets, hotel reservations, everything. Our first day there is the first game of the World Series. I say, “Hey, maybe we’ll be playing the Cubs.” She says, “We’re not going there for the World Series. I’m not playing second fiddle to the Red Sox.”

  SK: Oh God, does that ever sound familiar. They’re playing our song.

  There’s an official tally of the Opening Day payrolls. Once again, the Yankees top the majors at 183 million. The Sox are second at 125, the Angels third at 101.

  By three I’m getting antsy, and call Naomi. I call five times before I get her machine and leave a message. Before I pack the family in the car and drive a hundred miles, I want to know the tickets are going to be there.

  At a quarter to five, Naomi calls. She’s still not sure of the exact location, and the seats may be piggybacked—two in front, two behind—but they’ll be there. Thank you, Naomi; you came through like Tommy Brady. I’m sorry I ever doubted you.

  It’s sprinkling at Camden Yards and the stands are half-empty. Wake’s going against a young lefty named Matt Riley who’s coming off Tommy John surgery. Ortiz sits, Millar plays right, Burks DHs and McCarty gets a start at first. Mirabelli, who usually handles Wake, is behind the plate. Along with Bellhorn and Pokey, it’s not the most power-packed lineup, so I’m hoping Riley doesn’t have much.

  He doesn’t need much. Through eight, our five through nine guys are 0 for 10. The starters leave with the score tied 2–2, and then it’s the game that won’t end. By the twelfth, only Dauber and Mendoza haven’t seen action (they show Dauber in the dugout in a Sox watch cap, bent over, his chin propped on the knob of his bat like the one kid who wasn’t picked). It’s been four hours now; everyone else has long since turned off ER and gone to bed, and with the Sox not scoring in the top of the innings, the bottoms are like a death watch, just waiting for the bad thing to happen.

  The twenty-fifth man, Bobby Jones, is on for us, and gives up a leadoff single to Bigbie. Mazzilli chooses to play by the book and has Roberts bunt him over. With two outs and Jones behind 2-0 on Tejada, we walk him intentionally and then get Palmeiro to ground out on a nice charging play by Bellhorn that Todd Walker wouldn’t have made.

  We do nothing in the thirteenth. It’s raining again, and it’s past 11:30. Jones, who’s been going deep in the count to every batter, walks Lopez to start the inning. Bautista tries to bunt him across only once, then strikes out. The ump’s noticeably squeezing the zone on Jones on righties, where, in the tenth, he called two pitches well up and in strikes to lefties Tek and Bill Mueller. On 3-1, Segui swings but steals a walk by running down to first. On 3-2, Matos takes an agonizingly close pitch. The ump gives him the home call, and with one out the bases are loaded. Bigbie’s up. Jones has him struck out on a 1-2 pitch—down the pipe, not a nibble job—but, again, the ump doesn’t call it. Part of it’s the lateness of the hour, part of it’s the weather, and part has to be just a lack of respect. Jones dips his head and walks in a circle behind the mound. Ortiz visits from first to calm him down. A borderline pitch and it’s 3-2. And then the payoff pitch is up and out, and the game’s over. The camera follows Jones off, expecting he’ll say something in the direction of the ump. To his credit, he doesn’t.

  I only watch Extra Innings for a minute, just long enough to hear Eck say, “Not pretty.”

  As I get ready for bed, I keep replaying the game in my mind, running over the what-ifs, worrying that we’ll need this game somewhere down the road. And it was winnable. There was no good reason we lost it, just a terrible ump. I make a note to find his name in the paper tomorrow.

  April 9th

  His name is Alfonso Marquez. It’s said an umpire’s done a good job when no one notices him or her. Hey, Marquez, I got my eye on you.

  The paper says Nomar, though he’s still on the DL, will be in uniform for the opener today, as if that will placate the crowd.

  We get going a half hour late, but still arrive a good hour before game time. Parking is horrific. The main lot by the hospital is full, and we cruise Beacon Street down to Coolidge Corner, then try the side streets. We find a spot in a quiet neighborhood about a half mile away and hump it in.

  “Anyone sellin’?” the scalpers call, but no one is.

  The Will Call windows are mobbed, and incredibly slow. I wait in line for half an hour, and fear we’re going to miss the first pitch.

  As we cut in to get to our section, I realize we’re right at Canvas Alley, where the grounds crew hangs out. Up the stairs, and there’s the green of the field and the Monster and the jammed bleachers with the scoreboard on top. Our seats are right on the alley, about ten rows back. We’ve missed the first pitch from Arroyo, but he’s still working on the first batter.

  “The milk bottle’s gone,” Trudy says, and I look up to the roof in right field. The light stanchion there is bare, looming above three tiers of new tables squeezed in beneath a long BUDWEISER sign. The Hood milk bottle used to flash whenever a Sox pitcher struck someone out, and Hood would donate money in the pitcher’s name to the Jimmy Fund. I guess milk and beer don’t mix.

  Also new are Toronto’s black road uniforms, which I don’t like. They look exactly like the D-Rays’.

  Arroyo gets through the first, but makes his own trouble in the second by walking two. The bases are loaded when Reed Johnson doubles off the Monster. 2–0 Jays.

  Behind us are four guys in the brewpub business. One of them is constantly on the phone, trying to cut a deal, hollering as if he doesn’t believe the signal will reach. “We can bring a hundred thousand to start,” he says. “I want to say we can go one-ten, one-twenty if we have to.” He has this conversation with a dozen people, as if he’s clearing the deal with his partners. Buddy, it’s Opening Day. TURN OFF YOUR CELL PHONE.

  In the third Bellhorn’s on second with two down when Johnny comes up. “Save us, Jebus!” a girl beside us yells, a nifty Simpsons reference. Johnny fouls one off his knee that puts him on the ground. He can’t be hurt, we can’t afford it, and everyone cheers when he stands in again and bloops one down toward us that drops, making it 2–1. The next batter, Bill Mueller, hits another bloop toward us, spinning foul. Delgado’s got no shot at it, but Orlando Hudson sprints all the way from seco
nd to the line and dives. I see the ball land in his glove just as he disappears, thumping into the padded wall. I have to check the first-base ump shadowing the play: he clenches his fist in the out sign. Hudson’s still not up, we can’t see him at all, and then Delgado pulls him to his feet. His whole left side including his hat is covered with dirt, and we give him a standing O. That is some major league baseball. I hope I catch the replay on ESPN to see how he did it.

  By now the crowd’s settled and Trudy and Steph make a run to the concession stand. There’s a new 3-D cup this year with the four starters on it, along with Fenway, a flag and an eagle left over from the 2002 model. The company hasn’t proofread the thing: Schilling is spelled SHILLING. And will be all season long.

  In the fourth, Arroyo lets in two more. He’s just not sharp. But in the bottom of the inning Manny turns on an inside pitch and rips one off of Hinske at third (the ball rolling into the dugout, giving him second—it’s not an error for Hinske, just a hard chance and a bruise), Ortiz doubles to knock him in, and with two gone we load the bases for Pokey. He hits a floating liner to left. It looks like it should be caught, but it sails over Frank Catalanotto’s head to the base of the wall, and the game’s tied at 4.

  When the inning ends, I head for the restroom and the concession stand. Everyone else has the same idea, and after I’ve tracked down some commemorative Opening Day balls, a Cuban sandwich for Trudy and a bag of Swedish fish for Caitlin, I’m walking across the big concourse behind right field when a roar goes up from the crowd, and then a roar on top of that that makes everyone turn. I hustle with my arms full to a TV monitor in time to see Tek jog across the plate. He’s homered to put us on top, 5–4.

  To preserve the lead in the seventh, Francona brings in lefty Mark Malaska, who didn’t even make the club, but who we’ve brought up from Pawtucket because we went through the entire pen last night. Malaska is asked to get the good-hitting Catalanotto and then last year’s #2 and #1 RBI guys, Vernon Wells and Carlos Delgado. And he does, one-two-three. Mystery Malaska!

  In the Toronto eighth, righty Josh Phelps leads off, so Francona opts to go with Mike Timlin, who only threw two-thirds of an inning last night. Timlin Ks Phelps, but then has to face lefty Eric Hinske, who singles, and the switch-hitting Hudson, who doubles to the left-center gap, tying the game. Timlin gets pinch hitter Simon Bond, but number nine hitter Kevin Cash doubles to the exact same spot, and the crowd boos. There’s nobody warming—again, the effect of last night. Timlin hits Johnson with a pitch, and people are screaming. Catalanotto lines one over Millar’s head. Millar turns and does his impression of running, giving a blind wave of his glove. We’re lucky—the ball hops into the stands for a ground-rule double, and Johnson has to go back to third. When Timlin finally gets Wells to pop up for the third out, it’s 7–5 Toronto.

  We do nothing with our half of the eighth.

  Embree comes on in the ninth and gives up a rocket of a homer to Delgado. Phelps flies deep to right, and then Embree walks Hinske. Francona, I suppose to prove he has a sense of humor (and to test ours), brings in McCarty. “You should have brought him in for Timlin!” someone yells.

  McCarty actually doesn’t look bad, throwing in the mid-to-high eighties and going to his curve. He gets Hudson to ground one to him, moving Hinske over. Two down. When he goes to a full count on Chris Gomez, the crowd rises, cheering the absurdity of it. McCarty reaches back and throws one by Varitek all the way to the backstop, walking Gomez and giving Hinske third. The crowd subsides, and then groans when Cash blasts a double to the triangle in center, scoring both runners. It’s 10–5, and the casual fans head for the exits, while the diehards sneak down to steal their seats.

  The good news is that they’ve changed the numbers on the scoreboard for the Yankees–White Sox game. Chicago’s up 5–1 in the fifth.

  In the bottom of the ninth, with one down and Bellhorn up, Brian Daubach comes out and walks over to the on-deck circle. Bellhorn flies out, and the crowd rises for Dauber (Eminem’s on the PA: “Guess who’s back, back again”), hoping he’ll give us something to cheer about. He grounds weakly to second, and we’ve lost the home opener.

  The walk to the car seems long. At least it’s nice out. We mutter about Timlin, and laugh at how I missed the one great moment of the game. It’s still a good day.

  On the Mass Pike, we pass a car with a bumper sticker that says JOB WAS THE FIRST RED SOX FAN, and it’s early enough in the year that it’s still funny. We tune into the PawSox playing Buffalo and catch the final of the Yankee game: White Sox 9, Yankees 3. It’s the Buffalo station we’re pulling in, and as we head west into the night and traffic thins, the signal grows stronger. The PawSox are leading 5–4, and mile after mile we get to catch up with Kevin Youkilis.

  Today was the first game I missed from beginning to end: I even dipped into last night’s Late Show, catching the tenth and eleventh of the game versus Baltimore the Sox ended up dropping in thirteen. My younger son Owen called me with an update on this one in the fourth, with the Sox down 4–1 (“Whoa, make that 4–2,” he said in the middle of the call, adding that Manny had hit the hardest line shot he—Owen—had ever seen; claimed it even looked like a bullet in slo-mo). Red Sox ended up losing 10–5, according to the Fox New England Sports Network ticker, which I for some reason get down here in Florida (ubiquitous Fox!). Man, Stewart! I’ll wait for the highlights (lowlights? deadlights?), but that doesn’t sound like Moneyball, that sounds like Uglyball. I’ll bet you anything that what’s-his-face, the converted fielder, pitched at least two innings. And the Yankees lost again. The AL East is looking My-T-Sof-Tee, at least in the early going. If I can get the game tomorrow, I intendto be there for the whole deal. It’s pretty important, I think, that Pedro be able to play the stopper and get us back to .500 early. Can’t wait for the standings tomorrow; .500 should be good enough to lead this fool’s parade.

  April 10th

  While we were waiting in the Will Call line, we missed Nomar and Yaz and Dewey and Tommy Brady. Damn you, unwieldy ticketing process!

  The paper says that Mendoza was moved to the DL, and that Johnny will be out for a few days with a “golf ball–sized lump” on his knee. Yesterday before his first at-bat, they played “Ironman” for him, and here a foul ball takes him out.

  It also says the plane the Sox were supposed to take from Baltimore after the thirteen-inning game had mechanical problems, and with the delays, the team bus didn’t get to Fenway until 7:30 yesterday morning, which might account for their sleepwalking performance.

  Because we spent all day at the park yesterday, I can’t persuade anyone to go to tonight’s game, even with the Pedro–Roy Halladay matchup. It frees me to leave early. I rocket across the Mass Pike and get there a full two and a half hours before game time. I’m the first one in the lot (now twenty-five bucks, though the attendant assures me they raised the price last August). I score my Will Call tickets and head for Lansdowne, thinking I might shag some home runs. Like a little kid, I’m lugging my glove.

  On Brookline Ave a billboard with a big picture of Nomar asks us to KEEP THE FAITH.

  Before I turn the corner, I find a scalper leaning against a wall, muttering, “Anyone buyin’, anyone sellin’.” I tell him I have one, and we haggle. Even though it’s hours before game time, it’s Pedro-Halladay, and I want at least face value. He lowballs so I walk, but there’s a young Korean tourist lurking behind him who steps forward and offers to trade me a Yankee ticket for it—the Patriots’ Day game, which starts at 11 A.M., way too early for us to get here. I jump on the trade, then turn and sell the $20 bleacher seat to the scalper for well more than the face value of today’s ticket, and walk away grinning. It’s rare that you scalp a scalper.

  On Lansdowne the Sausage King and the souvenir guys by Gate E are setting up. A band of college kids wearing long dark wigs and beards walks by; their shirts say DAMON’S DISCIPLES. I stake my claim to a pillar by the entrance to the elevated parking lot, leaning against it to
hide my glove behind my back, and watch the Monster. I’m almost under the Coke bottles, between them and Fisk’s foul pole, the perfect spot for dead-pull hitters. But nothing’s coming over. It’s too early; they’re still running the tour groups through.

  A father and son join me. They’ve got standing rooms on the Monster and they’re hoping to catch a ball. I wish them luck and post up by Gate E, hoping to be the first one in so I can grab my favorite corner spot down the left-field line.

  After a nervous five minutes waiting for them to roll open the corrugated-steel doors, I’m the second one through the turnstiles and the first into the grandstand. The Sox are already batting. As I make my way down to the empty corner, I see Johnny Pesky walking out toward left field with a fungo bat and hail him. Johnny joined the club as a shortstop in 1942. He’s eighty-five and still putting on the uniform. He waves back, a Fenway benediction.

  Bending over the low wall and reaching with my glove, I can just touch the plastic left-field foul line (yeah, weird, not chalk but a permanent strip of plastic). I wait for a hot grounder into the corner, pounding my glove.

  Nothing comes. The Sox finish and the Jays take the field. A liner hooks over us for Section 33—“Heads up!”—and bangs into the seats. A few balls off the wall end up in the corner, but these the outfielders toss up or hand to little kids.