by Stephen King
Is winning the American League pennant an event of magnitude? We are, after all, fighting some kind of screwed-up war in Iraq where over eleven hundred American soldiers have already died, not to mention at least two hundred American civilians. We are fighting (or trying to fight) a war on terrorism. We are electing a president in less than two weeks, and the dialogue between the candidates has never been hotter. In light of those things, does winning the pennant even matter?
My answer: you bet your sweet ass it does.
One of the eeriest things about this year’s just-concluded Boston–New York baseball tussle is the way it mimicked this year’s ongoing political contest. John Kerry, a Massachusetts resident, was nominated in Boston and threw out the first pitch at a crucial Red Sox–Yankees game. George Bush was nominated in New York City, and Dick Cheney attended a Yankee–Red Sox game, wearing a Yankees cap over the old solar sex-panel while snipers stood posted high above the fans. As with the Red Sox in the ALCS, Kerry started far behind, then pulled even in the polls. (Whether or not he can win his own Game 7 remains very much open to question, and even if he does, it probably won’t be by the electoral college equivalent of seven runs.)
The four playoff games in New York transcended mere sport for another reason. Except for the Irish tenor warbling his way through “God Bless America” during the seventh-inning stretch—now a tradition at most or all parks, I think—there was little or no sign of 9/11 trauma at Yankee Stadium. The Yanks have had their trials and travails this year (poor pitching chief among them), but the need to provide therapy for their hurt and grieving city by winning the American League pennant was thankfully not one of them.
Yet a comfy tradition of winning leaves one—whether that one be an individual or a sociological overset combined of several million fans—unprepared for loss, especially when the loss is so shocking and unexpected. The headlines in this morning’s three New York papers express that shock better than any man- or woman-on-the-street interview ever could.
From the New York Times: RED SOX TO YANKEES: WAIT TILL NEXT YEAR and MONUMENTAL COLLAPSE.
From the Daily News: THE CHOKE’S ON US and (this is a classic, I think) HELL FREEZES OVER. Accompanying the latter is a picture of Pedro with his hands upraised and the caption: “Pedro Martinez celebrates in his daddy’s house.”
From the New York Post, sad and succinct: DAMNED YANKEES.
After the game, out by the gigantic bat in front of Gate 4, most Yankee fans were downcast but magnanimous, considering the fact that the Red Sox fans—there were plenty of them—were delirious with joy, pounding each other on the back, giving and receiving high fives, pogoing up and down. One large, hairy man grabbed me around the waist and whirled me around thrice, screaming, “Stephen! Stephen! We won, ya scary sonofabitch! I LOVE YA!”
“GO, RED SOX!” I screamed back. It seemed safe enough, and besides, it was what I felt.
“GO, RED SOX!” the large, hairy man screamed. “GO, JOHNNY DAMON! GO, MANNY! GO, YOU LONGHAIRED SONSABITCHES!” Then he was gone.
From behind me there came a dissenting note—three Yankee fans, teenagers by the sound (I did not turn around to see), who wanted me to know that “Red Sox suck, and you suck too, Steve.”
A mounted cop clopped by, leaned down, and said, “Tell ’em to blow it out their asses. Tell ’em you been waitin’ eighteen years.”
I might just have done that little thing, but he clopped on, magnificent on his steed and in his riot gear.
Such memories are like raisins in some fabulous dream cake. There are others—the churlish, childish failure of the Yankees to congratulate the Red Sox on their electronic scoreboard; the downcast Yankee fan who hugged me and said he hoped the Red Sox would go all the way this time;two crying children, a boy and a girl, slowly mounting the steps and draggingtheir big foam Number One fingers disconsolately behind them on the concrete, headed out of Yankee Stadium hand in hand—but mostly what I remember this morning are the lights, the noise, the sheer unreality of watching Johnny Damon’s grand slam going into the right-field stands, and being wrapped in a big Stewart O’Nan bear hug while he screamed, “We’re going to the World Series!” in my ear.
And that’s a fact: we are indeed going to the World Series. Right now, after coming back from the dead to beat the Yankees four straight, it almost seems like a postscript…but yes. We’re going to the World Series. It starts in Boston. And it matters. It’s part of an American life, and that matters a lot.
SO: We DID IT! And it was great to be there with you to see it. It’s a win no one can ever take away from us. History, baby.
The starting pitchers in tonight’s NLCS Game 7 are both products of the Red Sox: Roger Clemens and Jeff Suppan, who started with the PawSox ten-plus years ago and then returned for the last half of last season. In this one Suppan outpitches and outhits Clemens, executing a beautiful suicide squeeze that scores—of all people—Red Sock spring training hopeful Tony Womack.
SO: So it’s gonna be the Cards. Welcome to 1967. Except this time it’s the Possible Dream.
SK: Somebody play me the Lullaby of Birdland. We got fucked over by the Orioles. We did “okay” against the Jays. How you feeling about the Cardinals?
SO: Don’t bring the O’s into this. Just don’t. Miguel Te-hater.
And I’m glad it’s the Cards, winners of 105 games and by far the best and most consistent team in the majors this year. If we’re going to finally win it all, I don’t want it to be against a patsy like the Braves or Padres or Mets. Degree of difficulty counts, and whatever we achieve (or fail to achieve) the Cards will make us earn it.
Within hours of last night’s win, our e-mail in-box began filling with satirical Yankee-bashing pages. The classic was an advisory from the Red Cross informing us that the international signal for choking (a man holding his throat with both hands) would now be replaced by this more recognizable symbol (the intertwined N and Y). Marky Mark’s head was cut-and-pasted into a cast picture of Saved by the Bellhorn, and a shot of Derek Jeter and A-Rod glumly watching from the dugout rail bore the caption: “Not Going Anywhere for a While?” and a Snickers logo. And, God help me, until they started repeating, I laughed at every single one.
October 22nd
There will be baseball tomorrow night under the lights at Fenway Park. In the meantime, these intermission notes:
One—Dan Shaughnessy, Boston Globe columnist and author of The Curse of the Bambino, has been in full damage-control mode since Boston did its Rocky Balboa thing to win the pennant. Shaughnessy’s trying to convince joyful New Englanders that the Curse of the Bambino (largely created by Boston Globe columnist Dan Shaughnessy, who has book royalties to protect) is still in full force; beating the Yankees is not enough. “Now Wait Just a Minute: Series Still Must Be Won” is the heading of today’s column, which begins, “Let’s get one thing straight: the Curse of the Bambino has not been lifted. The job is not yet done.”
I happened to catch Shaughnessy on one of the cable news channels last night not long after I arrived home from New York, spinning pretty much the same line. He was on the phone; Red Sox–Yankees highlights were playing on the screen. When he paused for breath, the newscaster asked him what he and Boston baseball fans would talk about vis-à-vis the Red Sox next year if Boston did happen to win the World Series.
Either the query or the concept behind it seemed to catch Shaughnessy by surprise. There was an uncharacteristic pause, and then he said, “You know, that’s an interesting question.” Which to my mind is always aninteresting response, meaning the person to whom the question has been directed has no freakin’ idea. Sure enough, Shaughnessy never did really respond to the newscaster’s question.
Without the curse to fall back on (or the Curse, if you prefer), they might have to actually write about the games? You think? I know some of the Boston sports cannibals would find that a daunting proposition at the outset, but most of them (their taste for the golden flesh of athletes to one side) are pretty da
mned good writers, and I’m sure they’d rise to the challenge in short order.
Two—During the wee-hours postgame celebration outside Fenway Park, a twenty-one-year-old Emerson College student named Victoria Snelgrove was killed when she was struck by a plastic ball filled with pepper spray. Boston police commissioner Kathleen O’Toole accepted responsibility for the young woman’s death (handsome, and no doubt of great comfort to her family), and in the next breath condemned the “punks” who seized upon the Red Sox victory over the Yankees as “an opportunity for violence and destruction.” Running beside this story is a picture of the late Ms. Snelgrove, looking not like a punk but a Madonna.
Boston mayor Thomas Menino says the city is considering a ban of liquor sales during the World Series (think how proud his Puritan predecessors would be of that), and also of banning live TV coverage of the games in bars and restaurants, because it incites fans. [82] This is causing the predictable howls of outrage from bar and restaurant owners, and they may have a point, especially since Menino failed to mention the sale of beer within Fenway Park itself while the games are going on.
Three—It’s going to be St. Louis rather than Houston when the Series convenes tomorrow for another of those hateful (perhaps even beerless?) night games. The Rocket gave it his best shot last night in Game 7 of the NLCS, and the Astros even led for a while, but in the end the Roger Clemens tradition of just not being able to win the big game again held true.
Red Sox rooters looking for additional reasons to believe—and surely any would come in handy, considering that the 2004 Cardinals won more games than any other pro baseball team—might consider this: in theNLCS, the home team won every game. And in this World Series, the Red Sox have the home field advantage.
And have it thanks to Manny Ramirez’s first-inning home run in the All-Star Game off of… Roger Clemens.
The World Series
THE POSSIBLE DREAM
October 23rd/World Series Game 1
SK: I think Wake is a GREAT choice for Game 1. Sure he’s a risk, but he’d be MY choice; he might tie those big thumpas in knots. Even if he doesn’t, I give Francona kudos for giving Timmy the ball. And for God’s sake, he’s gonna put Mirabelli behind the plate, right? Right.
Seeya 5:30,
Steve “I Still Believe” King
I’d violently disagree with Steve—Wake is his boy as much as Dave McCarty is mine, and Wake’s been plain awful this year, besides the few usual wins in Tampa; the best thing he did was volunteer to mop up in Game 3 against the Yanks and give Lowe his spot in the rotation[83]—but I’m out the door and sailing across I-84 before Steve’s e-mail reaches me. It’s been a long time since I’ve been to a World Series, and I aim to get my fill.
The souvenir shops around the park don’t open until noon. At eleven-thirty, lines of eager buyers stretch far down the block. The amount of free junk people are handing out is astounding—papers, posters, buttons, stickers, pictures, temporary tattoos, Krispy Kreme doughnuts. Fans are staggering around with bags of the crap, in total material overload. When the stores open, barkers with bullhorns herd customers into switchbacked ropes—“This line only for World Series and AL Champion merchandise—this line only!”
Hanging out by the parking lot eight hours before game time, the autograph hunters are treated to an impromptu concert by Steven Tyler as he runs his sound check for tonight’s anthem. Steven doesn’t actually sing the song, he just blows an A on his harmonica and runs through an ascending series of bluesy scales, and sounds great—a cool reminder that Aerosmith started out as an electric blues band influenced by the early Stones, the Yard-birds and Muddy Waters.
After that, PA announcer Carl Beane warms his pipes, rumbling: “Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome… the National League Champion, St. Louis Cardinals,” over and over, as if he might have trouble with it later. He goes through a fantastical lineup: “Batting first, number one… Carl… Beane.” A minute later, “Batting fourth, number nine… Ted… Williams,” and the crowd outside applauds. “Batting fifth, number six… Stan… Musial.”
And speaking of old-timers, rumor is that Yaz is throwing out the first pitch, a sentimental touch, and overdue, since it’s said that Yaz and the club haven’t had the best of relationships since he retired. The new owners may be trying to patch things over. We also witness—well in advance—the return of Lenny DiNardo and Adam Hyzdu, two guys who spent time with the club early in the year. It’s nice to see the Sox are giving them a taste of the big show (though, of course, the guy we really want to see is Dauber).
Two other early arrivals of note: team physician Dr. Bill Morgan and, fifteen minutes later, wearing a brace on his right leg and no shoe in the cold, Curt Schilling. Before Game 6, Dr. Morgan sutured Schill’s tendon to his skin, a procedure he practiced first on a cadaver. Rumor (again, rumor, the outsider’s substitute for information) is that he’s going to stitch him up again for tomorrow’s start in Game 2. On those few threads, our whole season may depend.
Inside, there are more banners than I’ve seen all year—a lifting of the normal ban, for TV’s sake, I expect. It’s cold, with a wind whipping in from straight center, which should give Wake’s knuckler more flutter. Even the stiff wind isn’t enough to keep David Ortiz in the park tonight. In the first, in his very first World Series at-bat, El Jefe busts out with a three-run golf shot OVER the Pesky Pole. We chase Woody Williams early, giving Wake a 7–2 lead going into the fourth.
Beside me, Steve is smiling. Kevin, the usher who comes down between innings with a camp chair to keep people off the wall, is overjoyed with how things are going. “No,” I say, glum, “just watch: Wake’ll start walking people. He always does when we give him a big lead.” And I don’t say this to jinx anything, I say it because I’ve seen Wake all year long, and that’s just what he does.
And that’s just what he does—walking four in the fourth to break a World Series record, and soon after he’s gone it’s 7–7. It’s like they used to say about Fenway when it was a launching pad: no lead is safe here.
“Man, that was ogly,” Orlando Cabrera said in a postgame interview. He paused, then added, “But we won.” Ogly pretty well sums up the first game of this year’s World Series, which ended with a thing of beauty: Keith Foulke striking out Roger Cedeno a few minutes after midnight.
Speaking of ogly, Orlando wasn’t looking so good himself in that interview, and he seemed uncharacteristically solemn. A Woody Williams pitch hit him on the shoulder in the first inning, then bounced up into his face, leaving him with a bruised chin, a fat lip, and a temporary inability to smile—which, under ordinary circumstances, Mr. Garciaparra’s replacement does often. Pain or no pain, Cabrera must have been at least tempted to test that smile when the Red Sox finally escaped with an ogly but serviceable 11–9 win in spite of four errors (one by Bronson Arroyo—starter Tim Wakefield’s fourth-inning relief—one by Kevin Millar, and two by Manny Ramirez). Every one of those errors led to runs, leading me to wonder if any of the Red Sox players felt tempted to visit the Cardinals’ clubhouse after the game and assure them on behalf of the home team that Boston doesn’t play that way every night.
Cabrera might have been even more tempted to test his swollen lip if informed of this statistic: in World Series history, the team drawing first blood has gone on to win the Fall Classic 60 percent of the time. Still, there’s that other 40 percent…and the fact that the Cards have yet to lose during this postseason on their home field. But—fingers crossed, now—you’ve got to like the Red Sox going into Game 2. They’re nice and loose (what could be looser than four errors and four walks issued by Red Sox pitching?), their demonic archrivals are behind them and they’re riding a nifty five-game winning streak.
Last night’s game began with a moment of silence for Victoria Snelgrove, the young woman killed by a pepper-gas ball during riot-control operations outside Fenway following Boston’s final victory over New York,and while it was both decent and brave of the current ownersh
ip to remember her (one is tempted to believe that the previous bunch of caretakers would have swept Ms. Snelgrove under the rug as fast and as far as possible), it was also a reminder of what is truly ogly in our brave new world, where all game bags are searched and the clocks tick on Osama Mean Time.
There were lines of Boston police, looking like puffy Michelin Men in their riot gear, watching impassively as the happy and largely well-behaved crowd left the old green First New England Church of Baseball with the strains of “Dirty Water” still ringing in their ears and the memory of Mark Bellhorn’s game-winning, foul-pole-banging home run still vivid in their minds. To me those dark lines of armed men outside such a place of ancient and innocent pleasure are a lot harder to look at than the mark on Orlando Cabrera’s face, or his swelled lower lip.
11–9 is a crazy score for a World Series game; so is a total of 24 hits and 5 errors. But the bottom line is that we won, Father Curt takes the mound tomorrow night on home turf with his freshly restitched ankle, and that’s a beautiful thing. (A remarkable one, anyway.)
I only wish Torie Snelgrove was around to see it.
The most surprising thing to me about Game 1 was how the Faithful booed Dale Sveum during the pregame introductions. I suppose it’s a delayed (or should I say sustained?) reaction to Johnny being thrown out at home in the first inning of Game 7 of the ALCS. Whatever it is, I don’t like it.
And despite the win, I don’t like the way Kevin Millar played, leaving ten men on, making essentially two errors on the same play (double-clutching that cutoff, then throwing the ball into the dugout), and later not getting anywhere near a ball hit down the line that both Mientkiewicz and McCarty handle easily.