by Stephen King
Out in left, #27 for the Jays has been shagging flies. As he comes in for his turn in the cage, I see he has a ball in his mitt. “Hey, two-seven,” I holler, and he looks around and tosses it to me.
It’s Frank Catalanotto, their left fielder and number two hitter, whose triple started them off yesterday.
Still nothing down the line. A lot of balls are banging off the Monster or reaching the seats. One arcs down into the front row, where a big guy in a windbreaker catches it barehanded against his chest and gets a hand. It’s the dad from Lansdowne. The kid’s all excited.
Later, on his way back out to left, Catalanotto picks up a ball from the grass behind third and—amazingly—tosses it to me. When he comes off, I ask if he’ll sign one, and he does. It’s the only autograph he gives, and while he’s not a star, I feel lucky, singled out.
BP’s finished, and I wander over to Steve’s seats behind the Sox on-deck circle. They’re dream seats, so close that, say, Manny swinging his taped-up piece of rebar intrudes on your view of Ortiz at the plate. Julie, the assistant who’s babysitting Steve’s tickets, might be there, and I need to talk to her. I plant myself in his seat and admire the balls and Catalanotto’s illegible signature. As game time nears, I wonder if Julie’s coming. If not, fine. I’ll just sit here.
Before the game starts, there’s already good news on the scoreboard:
CWS 7
NYY 3
Pedro comes out throwing 89–90. Catalanotto singles sharply to center, but that’s it in the first. Halladay’s up at 93, 95. He’s 6′4″ with a patchy beard, and on the mound he looks Randy Johnson tall. Crespo leads off, and Halladay blows two by him, then freezes him with a backdoor curve. Bill Mueller and Ortiz barely get wood on the ball. Looks like it’s going to be a quick game.
Josh Phelps leads off the top of the second with a drive down the right-field line. It looks like it’s going to drop, but Kapler digs hard and dives, tumbles in the dust and comes up with it. It’s even bigger when the next batter, Hinske, rips a single. There’s some muttering in the seats, but Pedro bears down and gets Hudson, then gets a borderline call on Woodward, and the Faithful stand and cheer him off.
When Kapler stands on deck that inning, I call, “Great catch, Gabe,” and he turns in profile and nods. I’m so close I can read the writing on his T-shirt under his white home jersey. It’s a new tradition with the club; last year with Grady, the players wore all kinds of inside motivational slogans. Backwards across Gabe’s shoulders, it says ZAGGIN LAER. When he pops to third to end the inning, the ump inspects the scuffed ball and gives it to the Sox bat-boy (bat-man, really, because he’s a pro) Andrew. As Andrew’s coming back toward the circle, I call his name and hold up my glove, and he hits me. “Thanks, Andrew.”
Ortiz is wearing a slogan too. ARE YOU GONNA—That’s all I can get.
Both pitchers settle in. There are no rallies, no tight spots, just solo base runners stranded at first, and lots of strikeouts.
In the bottom of the sixth, Crespo leads off with a slow roller to short. He busts it down the line and dives headfirst for the bag—safe. It’s a spark. Bill Mueller rolls one to Delgado, who makes the right decision and goes to second to get Crespo. David Ortiz comes up (“El Jefe!”) and after seeing a few pitches blasts one deep to right that makes us all rise. It carries the wall and caroms off the roof of the Sox bullpen. In the stands we’re high-fiving. David touches the plate, lifts his eyes and points with both hands to God.
First pitch, Manny lines one for a single. Maybe Halladay’s tired. He’s thrown 80 pitches—120 Canadian. He blows away Kapler to end the inning.
Pedro’s having a quick top of the seventh when, with two down, he gets behind Hudson 2-1. Hudson’s the number seven hitter, a second baseman and not a big guy, so Pedro goes after him. He can’t get his 90 mph fastball past him, and Hudson parks it in the Jays’ bullpen.
It’s only 2–1 for one batter, as Bellhorn leads off the bottom with a slicing Pesky Pole homer.
Pedro Ks the first batter in the top of the eighth. It’s his last inning, and as he sometimes does, he’s going to sign the win by striking out the side. Except after Catalanotto takes a backdoor curve for strike three, here comes Francona from the dugout. Pedro looks around, surprised. He glances out to the bullpen where Foulke is warming, as if he had no idea. Francona chucks Pedro on the shoulder as if to say good job and takes the ball from him. Boooooo! Pedro high-fives everyone in conference at the mound, then, as he’s walking off, before crossing the first-base line, touches his heart, kisses his pitching hand and points to God. Huge standing O. At the top of the dugout steps he stops and points to God again, holding the pose a little too long, but hey, that’s Pedro. (This is the kind of showboating that gets him booed in other parks, but here, after taking on Halladay, it’s okay.)
Petey’s thrown 106 pitches, but I wonder if it’s more of a power move on Francona’s part, taking an early opportunity to show the media and the talk-radio fans that this is his club and he can make Pedro do something he doesn’t want to do (as opposed to Grady, who couldn’t take the ball from him when it was clear he needed to come out). Foulke gets Vernon Wells on a roller, so it’s a good move, or at least not a bad one.
Manager Carlos Tosca decides to close the Mike Scioscia way, bringing in a lefty to get Ortiz, then pulling him for a righty to face Manny. Manny uncharacteristically swings at the first pitch, and greets Aquilino Lopez with a bomb to center that just keeps going. It’s hit into the wind but ends up a few rows deep in Section 36, somewhere around 450 feet. 4–1 Sox. After that, Tosca says the hell with it and leaves Lopez in to finish.
As we start the ninth, the crowd’s singing “Sweet Caroline” a cappella long after Neil Diamond’s finished. It’s a party, and when the folks in the front row take off to beat the traffic, I move up and stand at the wall with my hands on the bunting (real cloth, not plastic, as you might expect) as Foulke closes.
It’s only 9:30. It’s been the fast, clean game you’d expect from two Cy Youngs, all the scoring on longballs.
The high floats me home. Traffic’s light, and I’m entirely satisfied. There’s nothing to nitpick or second-guess, no needling what-ifs. Pedro wasn’t dominant, but he was very, very good. Ortiz delivered the big blow, Manny was 3 for 4, Kapler made that great diving catch. And—this is silly, since it’s not even Easter yet—with Baltimore whipping up on Tampa Bay, I do believe we own a share of first place.
SK: Well, well, good game. Petey looked like Petey and Roy Halladay surely looked like he was saying “FUCK! SHIT!!” after the Ortiz home run in the sixth. On the replay, too. So the Red Sox climb to .500 for the third time in the young season. Now, for the really interesting question—since most of us watch these things on TV (hell, I’m 1000 miles from Fenway, give or take a few), who pays the freight? Mostly Dad-oriented companies, as you might guess, but one of the heavy-rotation sponsors, McDonald’s, features hungry ladies leaving a baby shower and booking straight for Mickey D’s, where they gobble turkey clubs on pita bread. And maybe that’s not so strange; I watched tonight with my eighty-year-old mother-in-law, who went directly from the BoSox game upstairs to Maine-Denver Frozen Four hockey downstairs.
Also, for your consideration, the following big-league sponsors:
Tweeter (“Just sit back and enjoy”)
Dunkin’ Donuts (Curt Schilling with a Walkman, learning to speak New England)
Foxwoods Casino (“The wonder of it all”)
Geico Insurance (“Good news, your rap sucks but I saved a bundle”)
Xtra Mart (“Fuel up on Brewboy coffee”)
SBC Phone Service (“Old farts, please phone home”)
Friendly’s Restaurants (“Sorry, Dad, no sports car for you”)
TD Waterhouse (“Know your investment risk”)
Cool TV (i.e., “Watch more Boston Bruins hockey”)
Funny Bears Drink Pepsi Cola
Volvo (“Official car of the Boston Red Sox”)
> Camry, the Car of Caring Dads
Ricoh Color Printers (“Because, face it, black and white sucks”)
Dunkin’ Donuts again (Curt again: “Wicked haaa-aaaad”)
Albert Pujols for DirecTV (“Mah bat iss alwaysss talkun to me…” Seek help, Albert, seek help)
AFLAC, the Anthrax Duck
Interestingly enough, no beer ads until after 9 P.M., when they come in a suds…er, flood. And goodness, are they ever suggesting young men should drink a lot, especially the Coors Light ads.
Also, Foxwoods advertises a lot. The strong suggestion of the ads being that “the wonder of it all” involves pulling a great many chrome-plated handles a great many times.
I thought you—and possibly TV-watching fans everywhere—should know these things. Now, all together: AAAAAFFFFLACK!
P.S. Did you see Johnny’s Cavemen? Are they the perfect Bleacher Creatures or what?
SO: Speaking of advertising, for the first time the dugouts are plastered with Ford ovals—like the Jays’ wallpapered with Canadian Tire ads.
I saw Damon’s Disciples before, during and after the game. A shame Johnny didn’t play. Crespo hustled (two infield hits) and played center passably. Let’s hope Millar’s days roaming Trot’s yard are over.
April 11th
Poor ol’ Dauber. Because we’ve been eating up the pen, we need fresh arms, and ship him to Pawtucket to bring up a ghost—Frank Castillo, who we dumped last year and then re-signed this February. Dauber will have to clear waivers before reporting. The odds are slim that anyone will claim him, but why take the chance if he’s really part of the team?
Johnny says he saw his disciples as he was coming out of the players’ lot. “They have shirts that said, ‘We have Jesus on our side.’”
It’s Schilling’s Fenway debut, and I’m not going. For the first time in my life I’m going to be a no-show, eating a pair of grandstands along with Easter dinner. I tell Steph that Schilling better not throw a no-hitter. “A perfect game,” he says.
Instead, it’s an extra-inning nail-biter that takes all day. Mystery Malaska battles again, taking us into the thirteenth.
“So who do we bring in next,” Steph asks, “Williamson?”
“We won’t have to,” I say. “We’re doing it here.” To seal the oath, we high-five around the room.
It’s Aquilino Lopez’s game. He walks Bill Mueller, bringing up David Ortiz. With Manny next, Lopez has to throw to him. He tries to nibble, then gives in and puts one over the plate. Ortiz hits a rainbow that brings us to our feet. “Get out!” It’s headed for deep left-center. It’s going to make the wall, and now it’s clear it’s going to carry it. The ball lands in the second row of the Monster seats, in the aisle between M7 and M8, ricocheting off a fan who scrambles after the magical souvenir. The Sox win 6–4, and the whole club gathers at home to pound David on the helmet and bounce up and down as a team. Too bad Dauber missed this one. Now I wish I’d gone—a walk-off job’s rare—but we’re celebrating here too, hooting and running to the kitchen to mob Trudy as if she hit it.
“Now it is officially a happy Easter,” I say.
The temptation is to see this as a defining moment, proof that we’re in for a wild year. It’s a win, that’s all, but a very satisfying one. Though it’s only April, with one swing, emotionally, we’ve made up for blowing both openers.
April 12th
In the mail there’s a promotional postcard for Steph, a handsomely designed riff on a fight poster that says SHOWDOWN IN BEANTOWN, touting Friday’s Yankee game on Fox—the network’s first regular-season game in prime time in years.
We’ve got Monster seats for Sunday’s Yankee game, and I’m hoping to cadge two field boxes from Steve for Friday’s “showdown.” Francona says he’s not going to use the off day to give Pedro an extra day of rest, meaning we’ll skip Arroyo and Petey will go in his normal slot Thursday night against the O’s (maybe a revenge game for him?). This way, Schilling stays on track for thirty-five starts rather than thirty-three, and Pedro sees the Yanks down in the Stadium the weekend after next. So Schilling will go this Friday, as he’s planned since February. Steph and I figure out we’ll see Wake on Sunday, and then, on Thursday against Tampa Bay, Wake again. (It’s a good thing Steph likes Tim-may. Last year we went through a goofy stretch where he saw five straight home starts of his.)
But that’s only if the weather holds. “It’s spring,” Steph reminds me. “We’re probably going to have some rainouts.”
April 13th
A dark, cold day. It pours all afternoon, and the Sox cancel tonight’s game early. There’s no reschedule date, and no rush, since Baltimore comes through again in July and September. The rainout itself is depressing, as if a party’s been called off, and makes the day that much gloomier.
SK: It was an insult that they shipped Dauber. The injury was that they shipped him for Frank.
SO: Funny how Crespo’s turned into our utility everything. Had a big spring, beating out Shump and Tony Wo, and now he’s playing infield and outfield and getting four or five at-bats a game, while Dauber’s rotting in Pawtucket. You can’t teach speed.
April 14th
My 2004 Media Guide arrives, with a picture of D-Lowe on the cover, celebrating the Game 5 win over Oakland, except the background isn’t from that game, but from the wild-card clincher at Fenway, with the fans on their feet and the whole bench bolting from the dugout. Matted in below this are press-conference shots of Schilling, Francona and Foulke holding up their new Sox unis, the symbolism unmistakable, as if adding these three elements together will produce a championship.
Just for fun, the text of the guide is printed in blue and red ink this year, 627 pages of stats and oddball facts like: last year with the White Sox, Dauber stole home; in college Mark Malaska was a slugging outfielder; Cesar Crespo’s brother Felipe played for the Giants, and homered twice in the same game in which Cesar hit his first major league homer with the Padres. Among the career highlights and personal trivia, I recognize dozens of lines I’ve already heard from Don and Jerry.
As if 627 pages aren’t enough, I hit the local bookstore and pick up Jerry Remy’s Watching Baseball, just out. As a color analyst, he’s usually pretty good with strategy, and I’m always willing to learn. I’m not disappointed. While a lot of it is basic, he also talks a fair amount about setting the defense according to the batter, the count and the pitch, and how important it is not to give your position away. He also lays out the toughest plays for each position, and the slight advantages base runners can take of pitchers and outfielders.
I’m psyched to use some of my new knowledge watching the game, but the website says it’s been cancelled due to “inclement weather and unplayable field conditions.” It’s a letdown, as if I was supposed to play. After Sunday’s walk-off homer, I’m feeling a little withdrawal.
April 15th
It’s raining when I wake up, but by midmorning the sun’s out, so I think we’re okay. Even better: in the mail are Steve’s dream seats for tomorrow night’s game, along with a parking pass. Look for me on Fox. (Last year, for one nationally televised game, we noticed that Todd Walker was miked, a transmitter tucked in his back pocket. Every time he was on deck, we yelled “Rupert Murdoch sucks!”)
Sunday’s game is On-Field Photo Day. I call up Sox customer service to find out more, but the woman there doesn’t know when it starts or what gate you need to go in or where the line will form.
In the paper, the Yanks asked UConn men’s hoops coach Jim Calhoun if he’d throw out the first ball at one of their games. Coach Calhoun’s a serious Sox fan; after his squad won it all in ’99 (beating a Yankee-like Duke team), he threw out the first pitch up at Fenway. “No chance,” he tells the Yanks. “Sixty years of torment is enough.”
The confusion the Yanks had is natural. The monied southwestern corner of Connecticut drains toward New York, and historically supports the more established Gotham teams. For a couple years, before moving to Jersey
, the football Giants played in the Yale Bowl. The northern and eastern edges of the state, butted up against Massachusetts and Rhode Island, are country, decidedly New England. The suburban middle, where I live, is disputed territory. On the Sox website, there’s a petition for Connecticut residents to sign, pledging their loyalty based on “traditional New England values of hard work and fair play,” and denouncing the encroachment of, yes, the evil empire. I’ve signed, though what good it does against George’s bounty hunters and clone army, I have no idea.
The game goes on as scheduled. Ben Affleck’s in the front row beside the Sox dugout (he emceed the Sox Welcome Back luncheon the other day), and I expect he’ll be there tomorrow against the Yanks. With the rainouts, neither pitcher’s seen action for a while. Pedro gives up a leadoff home run to Roberts. He’s missing spots, walking people, giving up another run in the second, but Ponson loads the bases and Johnny singles to right, and then Bill Mueller breaks an 0-for-20 drought with a Pesky Pole wraparound, and we’re up 5–2. It’s early, but the game seems in hand, and the home folks have shows they want to watch, so we switch over to Survivor and then The Apprentice (don’t worry, Steve, we’re taping Kingdom Hospital), clicking back to NESN every so often.
It’s 5–4 Sox in the fourth when we check in, just in time to see Johnny knock in Bellhorn. Ponson’s struggling, and Tejada doesn’t help him by dropping the transfer on a sure DP. Ortiz grounds to the right side and Pokey scores. 7–4.
When we check in again, it’s 7–7 in the top of the fifth and Pedro’s still in there. What the hell? (Palmeiro hit a three-run shot into the Sox bullpen.) He’s given up 8 hits and 4 walks. Yank him already!
Ponson’s gone after four, and Malaska comes on for us in the top of the sixth. It’s the big finale of The Apprentice, and for two hours we play peek-aboo with the relievers: Lopez, Williamson, Timlin, Ryan, Foulke, Embree.