“It’s still not that simple, though, is it, Bobby?” she said. “Is it fair to hold things back from the public-to only tell part of the story?”
“That’s a damn good point,” Kelleher said. “You and I both know there are times reporters hold back things that are personal as long as they don’t affect what the person does in public: a child with a serious health problem; a marriage in trouble before either person files for divorce; a mistake made years ago.
“You ask yourself the question: does the public need to know this? Sometimes the answer is yes. Sometimes no. There are tough calls to be made all the time. In this case I think the only reason the public would need to know this particular truth is if Doyle wrote a book or allowed a movie to be done on his life in which he lied about it.”
“I don’t think he’s going to do that now,” Stevie said.
“Me neither,” Susan Carol put in. Tamara was nodding in agreement.
“So what do we do now?” Stevie asked.
“I think we need to tell him before the game tonight that you aren’t writing the story, so it won’t be on his mind. Tell him you assume the movie’s off, and that if that’s the case, you don’t see any reason to tell the kids or anyone else what happened that night.”
“What about Joe Molloy?” Stevie said. “All he’s done is lie.”
“Yeah, but Joe Molloy is not news,” Kelleher said. “And I suspect he’s lived with a lot of guilt for the past twelve years. And you can even make the case that he thought he was doing the right thing.”
“So why didn’t he just tell us the truth?” Susan Carol asked.
This time it was Stevie who answered. “He kind of did… Remember, he said, ‘I can’t help but think of all the things I might have done differently that could have averted the accident’?”
“One more question,” Susan Carol said. “What if we find out next week that Doyle has made a movie deal?”
Kelleher held up the tape. “You’ll still have this in your back pocket,” he said. “And then you’ll use it.”
On the way to the ballpark, Kelleher read over the letter that Stevie and Susan Carol had written to Doyle one more time. It basically came down to this: “If you don’t sell a false story about yourself, we don’t think there’s any reason to tell this true story.”
“But how do we get Doyle to read this before the game?” Stevie asked. “The clubhouses are closed.”
“I’ve got that covered,” Kelleher said.
Should have known, Stevie thought.
As soon as they arrived at the ballpark, they headed for the field. Kelleher made a beeline for his friend Phyllis Merhige, with Stevie and Susan Carol in tow.
“Hey, guys, what’s up?” Merhige asked.
“Glad you asked,” Kelleher said, pulling the envelope with the letter out of his pocket. “I need you to deliver this to Norbert Doyle for Stevie and Susan Carol.”
Merhige looked at the three of them quizzically. “You’ll all get to see him after the game, why do you need me to do it?” she asked.
“Because you need to do it right now,” Kelleher said.
“Now?!” Phyllis shouted. “Bobby, the man is pitching game seven of the World Series in three hours and you want me to deliver a note to him now? Are you completely nuts?”
“Phyllis, how long have we known each other?” Kelleher asked.
“Too long,” she responded.
“What do you think the chances are I’d ask you to do something like this if it wasn’t vitally important and the best possible thing for the player involved?”
Merhige looked at him, then at Stevie and Susan Carol.
“I trust you two more than I trust him right now,” she said, half kidding, Stevie guessed. “Is it really that important?”
They both nodded. “He’ll thank you for getting it to him,” Stevie said.
She took the envelope from Kelleher’s hand.
“Oh, there’s one more thing,” he said.
“What?” she said, exasperated.
“You have to wait for an answer.”
“An answer? What kind of answer?”
“He needs to write on the back of the note ‘Agreed’ or ‘Do not agree.’”
“That’s it?”
“Yup. That’s it. Simple task. I will explain the whole thing to you over dinner the next time I’m in New York.”
She gave him a look. “It better be an expensive dinner,” she said.
“Smith & Wollensky,” Kelleher said. “I’ll have Murph set the whole night up.”
Without another word she walked down the steps into the third-base dugout and disappeared.
“Wait a second,” Stevie said. “What if the answer is ‘Do not agree’?”
“Then you guys will have a lot of writing to do before the night is over,” Kelleher said. “In fact, you’ll probably have to write during the game.”
Twenty minutes later Phyllis Merhige reappeared, envelope in hand.
“The fact that I didn’t look at this is testimony to either what a good person I am or what a lousy PR person I am,” Merhige said. “Whatever it is, though, you appear to have made his day.”
“Did he thank you?” Stevie asked.
“He hugged me to within an inch of my life,” she said.
She handed Kelleher the envelope. Kelleher leaned down and gave her a kiss. “Thank you, Phyllis,” he said. “You’re the best.”
“Save the charm,” she said. “You owe me Smith & Wollensky and a great bottle of wine.”
Phyllis walked away. Kelleher handed Stevie and Susan Carol the envelope.
“You guys open it,” he said.
Susan Carol pulled the note out and turned it over. Stevie could see that Doyle had written five words on the back, all of it in capital letters: “ABSOLUTELY AGREED. THANK YOU… FOREVER…”
They handed the note to Kelleher, who handed it to Tamara.
Susan Carol looked at Stevie and gave him the Smile. “I guess,” she said, “we get to watch the game.”
“All that work and we don’t write a word,” Stevie sighed.
“And I’ve never been more proud of you both,” Kelleher said.
After all that had gone on, game seven was almost anti-climactic for the first six innings. Doyle walked Dustin Pedroia with one out in the first, and then David Ortiz promptly hit his next pitch into the right-field bullpen for a 2-0 Red Sox lead. The lead went to 3-0 in the third on back-to-back doubles by Mike Lowell and J.D. Drew.
But the Nationals answered with three runs of their own against Tim Wakefield in the fourth on a single by Ryan Zimmerman, a double by Adam Dunn, a triple that scored two runs by Elijah Dukes, and a sacrifice fly by Aaron Boone.
“That didn’t take long,” said George Solomon. “Sort of like going eighty yards in four plays.”
“Sort of like quieting the crowd,” Mark Maske pointed out.
Wakefield came out of the game after six innings with the score tied 3-3. Manny Acta continued with Doyle on the mound, even though the Red Sox seemed to be hitting line drives right at fielders in every inning.
There were men on second and third and two outs in the seventh when Ortiz hit a shot to the gap in right-center. The crowd stood as one, then sat again, deflated, when Dukes tracked the ball down.
“How much longer will Acta stick with him?” Stevie asked. Watching him pitch was nerve-wracking.
“What are his options?” Barry Svrluga asked. “He obviously doesn’t trust his bullpen, even with all the other starters out there. Doyle’s pitch count is only eighty-eight so far and it’s a cool night.”
“Freezing is more like it,” Susan Carol said.
“Good pitching weather,” Svrluga said. “I think if he gets in any trouble in the eighth, he brings in a starter maybe Lannan again. I’d be surprised if Doyle’s still out there for the ninth.”
The crowd was now officially restless. This was not supposed to be a seven-game series to begin with, especially after
the Red Sox had gone up 3-2 coming back to Boston. Twenty-three years earlier, in 1986, the Red Sox had led the Mets 3-2 after five games-except that year the last two games were in New York.
“People forget that even after Buckner’s famous error in game six, the Red Sox led three to nothing in game seven,” Susan Carol pointed out after Okajima had retired the Nats one-two-three in the eighth.
“Just like this game,” Stevie said.
“Yes. Except in that game the Red Sox bullpen collapsed and the Mets won eight to five. That’s not happening here.”
The bottom of the eighth was remarkable because Doyle only threw five pitches. The Red Sox clearly seemed to think all his pitches were hittable, and since he hadn’t walked anyone since the first inning, they were swinging at everything. Jason Bay popped up on the first pitch; Mike Lowell took a ball and a strike and then hit a fly ball just short of the Green Monster in left field; and J.D. Drew lined the first pitch right at Aaron Boone at first base.
“Ninety-three pitches,” Svrluga said. “He might just come out to pitch the ninth.”
“They’re still hitting the ball hard,” Stevie said.
“But not in the right places,” Susan Carol said.
Francona went with the old baseball strategy of bringing in your closer to pitch the top of the ninth in a tie game at home-the thinking being if he gets three outs, your team can win the game in the bottom of the ninth. Jonathan Papelbon could pitch at least two innings if the score stayed tied.
“He should be fresh,” Maske said. “He only threw eleven pitches last night.”
Stevie noticed both Lannan and Hanrahan warming in the bullpen as the ninth started. Clearly, they were the only two guys out there that Acta trusted.
Boone led off the ninth. Perhaps not wanting to give up another October home run to him with a game on the line, Papelbon walked him on four pitches. The crowd stirred nervously.
Wil Nieves was next. “He has to bunt,” Susan Carol said.
“I’m not sure he can bunt,” Svrluga said. “He’s not the kind of guy you ask to bunt.”
Acta asked Nieves to bunt. Sure enough, he fouled the first two pitches off, and everyone assumed he would be swinging away with two strikes on him. But on the third pitch he actually pushed a bunt down the first-base line. Surprised, Papelbon fielded it and threw to Kevin Youkilis for the first out.
“Amazing he got a bunt down,” Maske said.
Next up was shortstop Cristian Guzman. Papelbon had no trouble with him, striking him out on a 97-mph fastball. Two men were out and Boone was still on second.
Up came leadoff hitter Austin Kearns, who had been moved to that spot in July to try to snap him out of a slump. He had hit so well there that he had stayed. Kearns worked the count full with three balls and two strikes, then fouled off four straight pitches. Each time Papelbon stretched to try to get the last strike, every fan in the ballpark was on their feet trying to will him to get the last out. He kept throwing fastballs, and Kearns kept fouling them off.
“He throws a breaking pitch, Kearns might break his back trying to swing at it,” Maske said.
“He won’t,” Svrluga said. “He won’t see anything but a fastball.”
He almost got the next fastball by him, but Kearns somehow hit it off his fists toward right field. Dustin Pedroia went back as right fielder J.D. Drew charged in. The ball landed smack in between them. Drew, who had been playing fairly deep to try to cut off an extra-base hit, charged the rolling ball as Boone flew around third base heading for home. Stevie felt himself hold his breath as Drew came up throwing.
The ball came in to Varitek on one bounce as Boone dove for the plate. The throw was just a tad off-line, and Varitek had to move up the first-base line, grab it, and then dive at Boone.
Boone slid wide to avoid the tag and groped for the plate with his left hand. Varitek swiped at him and held the ball up to show that it was in his hand. But John Hirschbeck, the home plate umpire, shook his head at Varitek and pointed to the spot on home plate where Boone’s hand had swiped it just a split second before the tag. Hirschbeck gave the safe sign as the entire ballpark exploded in boos of disbelief.
Boone, again a villain in Boston, leaped to his feet and was pounded on the back by his teammates as he headed to the dugout. There were TV sets in the auxiliary press box, and Fox showed the play again several times. Each time it was clear Hirschbeck had the call right. Boone’s hand brushed the plate an instant before the diving Varitek tagged him with the glove.
“They got it right,” Susan Carol said above the din. “He was safe.”
Most of the Red Sox and their fans clearly disagreed. Francona came out briefly to argue, but it wasn’t going to do any good.
Ronnie Belliard popped to shortstop for the final out, but the Nationals had the lead 4-3.
“Three outs away,” Susan Carol said. “I can’t believe it.”
“Here’s something for you to really not believe,” Stevie said, gesturing in the direction of the third-base dugout. Doyle had just popped out, heading for the mound to at least start the ninth.
“If they blow this lead now, Manny Acta will be crucified,” Svrluga said. “Why wouldn’t he go to Hanrahan here?”
“Because he’s been up and down all year,” Maske said. “The easy move is to bring him in. This takes some guts.”
“One base runner and he’s got to get the guy out of there, right?” Stevie said.
They all agreed. For a moment it looked as if there might not be a base runner. Varitek, who had started so many key Boston rallies through the years, grounded meekly to shortstop. Jacoby Ellsbury worked the count to 2-2 but then hit an easy fly ball to Dukes in center field. Remarkably, the Red Sox were down to their last out.
“I can’t believe this,” Susan Carol said softly, as if afraid to raise her voice and change Doyle’s luck.
“He’s going to do it,” Stevie said. “I can’t believe it.”
“Shhhhh!” Solomon said. “You’ll jinx him.”
For once, he appeared to know what he was talking about.
Shortstop Julio Lugo sliced a single to right field. Then Youkilis singled to right. The crowd came back to life. Nieves trotted to the mound to talk to Doyle.
“He’s not stalling here,” Svrluga said. “Hanrahan’s got to be ready.”
“I think he’s reminding him that he wants to get this over with now,” Maske said. “Pedroia’s very good, but they’ve got Ortiz on deck.”
Reminded or not, Doyle pitched carefully-too carefully-and walked Pedroia to load the bases.
“Uh-oh,” Susan Carol said as Ortiz walked to the plate and Acta jogged to the mound. Hanrahan was ready in the bullpen. This had to be it. The entire infield surrounded Doyle and Acta, ready to give him a hero’s send-off once Acta signaled for Hanrahan.
But the signal never came. Acta gave Doyle a pat on the back and jogged back to the dugout.
“Is he completely crazy?” Svrluga said.
Stevie could think of only one answer: apparently so.
Even at thirty-five, Ortiz was arguably the best clutch hitter in baseball, and he was smacking his hands together as he always did while walking to the plate. Fenway, almost silent after the first two outs, was now so loud there was no point in anyone trying to talk. In the Nats dugout Acta never moved. He had ridden Doyle this far, he would stay with him-do or die-for one more batter.
Ortiz stepped into the left-hand batter’s box. With the bases loaded, the Nationals overshifted as almost every team did against Ortiz: Ryan Zimmerman moved from third to the shortstop’s normal spot; Guzman moved to the first-base side of second; second baseman Belliard moved into shallow right field between first and second; and Aaron Boone, at first base, played deep and fairly close to the line.
Doyle quickly threw a strike on the outside corner. The next two pitches weren’t close, and the count went to 2-1. Amazingly, the place got louder. Ortiz took a huge cut at the next pitch, a slider that appeared to hang
a little. But he just missed getting solid wood on it, fouling it into the seats.
Now it was 2-2. Doyle tried to get Ortiz to chase a high fastball, but he held back. The count ran to 3-2. The tension was unbearable. Doyle had to throw a strike or walk in the tying run. Stevie felt as if he couldn’t breathe.
With the bases loaded, Doyle was pitching from the full windup. He rocked, kicked his leg in the air, and threw. Ortiz timed the pitch perfectly. The ball screamed off his bat on a line, headed toward the right-field corner. As soon as Stevie saw the ball come off the bat, his heart sank. Two runs would score easily by the time Kearns tracked the ball down, and then the series would be over.
But suddenly, seemingly from nowhere, Stevie saw Boone leap into the air, his arm stretching out as far as it could possibly go, lunging at the ball as it was going past him. Somehow, with his entire body parallel to the ground, he got his glove on it-the ball smacked off the top edge of his glove and popped into the air. Lying on the ground, Boone reached as far as he could with his bare hand and caught the ball no more than an inch from the ground.
For a split second nobody moved. Boone was lying on his stomach, holding the ball up for everyone to see, and umpire Tim McClelland was giving the out signal.
“OH MY GOD!” Susan Carol screamed.
They were all on their feet, looking in disbelief while the Nationals raced en masse from their dugout to engulf both Boone and Doyle.
“Aaron Bleepin’ Boone again!” Stevie shouted. “He’ll never get out of this place alive!”
But then an amazing thing happened. As the Nationals celebrated, the Red Sox, instead of just leaving the field, came out of the dugout themselves, led by Francona, to offer congratulations. As they did, the crowd, recovering from the shock of what it had just seen, responded. Slowly a wave of applause began, and after a few moments almost everyone in the ballpark was standing and clapping-for both teams.
Stevie felt chills run down his spine. He looked at Susan Carol, who was crying. He thought he might cry too. It had never occurred to him in the last week that their story might have a happy ending. But now, remarkably, it did.
Change-up: Mystery at the World Series Page 22