Stephen King - Faithful

But for the true junkie—er, fan, I mean, true fan —such perverse clouds of darkness do not matter. The idea of starting 0 and 22, for instance (as the Orioles once did), is pushed firmly to the back of the mind. [2] Where it festers. There will be no Sopranos tonight at 9 P.M., even if the Sox trail byfive in the seventh inning; there will be no Deadwood tonight at 10 P.M. even if Keith Foulke comes on in the eighth, blows a three-run Sox lead, and then gives up an extra three for good measure. Tonight, barring a stroke or a heart attack, I expect to be in until the end, be it bitter or sweet. And the same could be said for the season as a whole. I’m going to do pretty much what I did last year, in other words (only this year I expect to get paid for it). Which is pretty much addiction in a nutshell: doing the same thing over and over, and expecting a different result.

Right now it’s only 10 A.M., though, and the house is quiet. No one’s playing baseball yet. I’m fever-free for another nine hours, and I’m enjoying it. Don’t get me wrong, I’ll enjoy the baseball game, too. The first one’s always a thrill. I think that’s true even if you’re a Tigers or Devil Rays fan (a team that looks much improved this year, by the way). But by August, in the heat of a pennant race, I always start to resent the evenings spent following baseball and to envy the people who can take it or just turn it off and read a good book. Myself, I’ve never been that way. I’m an addict, you see. And I’m a fan. And if there’s a difference, I don’t see it.

Opening on the road sucks. You can’t feel the perfect newness of the season up close. A true home opener’s a pearl, smooth and untouched. Not this year. By the time the team gets to Fenway, whether we’re 4-0 or 0-4, the season will have been rubbed up, scuffed, cut. And it’ll still be cold.

It’s forty-three and breezy in Baltimore. Hot dog wrappers and plastic bags drift by behind the home-plate ump. I’m at home, digging the game on NESN from my cozy couch. Don Orsillo and Jerry Remy talk about Opening Day jitters, and to prove them right, in the first Bill Mueller throws one wide of Millar. Melvin Mora lets him off the hook by trying to take third on a bloop single, and Manny easily guns him down. In the top of the next inning, Mora lifts his glove and lets a grounder go through his legs.

The heart of the O’s lineup is made of their big off-season free agents—former MVP Miguel Tejada and All Stars Rafael Palmeiro and Javy Lopez. In the second, Lopez, seeing his first pitch as an O, plants a high fastball from Pedro in the left-field seats, and the crowd chants, “Ja-vy, Ja-vy.” Don points out that the fastball was clocked at 89.

Pedro’s missing the plate, pulling his hard curve a good two feet outside on righties. Gibbons singles, then Pedro plunks David Segui. There are no outs. Bigbie hits an excuse-me roller to Pedro, who checks second and goes to first. The throw’s to the home side of the bag, and looks like Millar can handle it, but it tips off his glove and skips away. Gibbons scores and the runners move up. “Payyyyd-rooooo, Payyyyd-rooooo,” the crowd taunts. He leaves a change-up up to Matos, who singles in Segui. Matos steals second. In the bullpen Bronson Arroyo is warming.

Don and Jerry debate the possibility that something’s physically wrong with Pedro; maybe he’s having trouble gripping the ball in the cold. Pedro quiets them (and the crowd) by striking out Roberts and Mora, bringing up Tejada, who looks thicker around the middle, positively husky for a shortstop. He hits one deep to right-center that Johnny Damon tracks down, and we’re out of it.

Jerry says we’re lucky to be down only three runs, and while he’s right, I don’t feel lucky. Two innings into the opener and the season’s turning to shit.

We get a run back in the top of the third when Manny rips a single off Ponson’s back leg. In the bottom, Bellhorn and Pokey turn a nifty two to end the inning and touch gloves on their way to the dugout. So some things are working.

In the fourth, on a ball to the right-field corner with two down and the number nine hitter coming up, Dale Sveum holds Kapler at third, though the throw goes into second without a cutoff man. “Don’t be stupid,” I plead, too late. And then Pokey, for no reason I can see, tries to sneak a bunt past Ponson and is an easy third out.

Pedro’s settled down, giving up only two hits since the second. It’s still only 3–1 in the seventh when David Ortiz launches one down the right-field line—foul.

In the seventh, Timlin comes in and walks two, gives up a bloop to Tejada and a Palmeiro single through a shifted infield, and it’s 4–1. Dave Wallace makes a visit to the mound but doesn’t take Timlin out. The next batter, Javy Lopez, hits a long fly to right-center that hangs up. Johnny D tracks it as the wind takes it away from him. Kapler’s angling in from right to back up the play. Johnny looks up, then looks over at Kapler. Kapler looks at Johnny. The ball lands between them. With two outs, everyone’s running, and Palmeiro hoofs it all the way around from first.

This is when everyone leaves, including Trudy. It’s eleven o’clock on a Sunday, and the game has been plain ugly. It continues that way. The reliever for the O’s walks the bases loaded and gives up a run on a fielder’s choice. Later, Cesar Crespo makes a throw in the dirt that Millar should scoop but doesn’t, letting in another run. In the top of the ninth it’s 7–2 and thirty degrees and Camden Yards is empty, yet the fans I see behind the dugout—this is so typical it makes me laugh—are all Red Sox fans. And here I am, the only one left awake in the house, watching to the bitter end.

Tom Caron and Dennis Eckersley break it down on Extra Innings, but really, what can you say about a game like this? The most obvious stat is 14 men left on base. Johnny D went 0 for 5 in the leadoff spot, Tek went 0 for 4. Timlin gave up three earned runs in two-thirds of an inning (and one of those outs was Tek cutting down a runner on a risky pitchout). They pick on Pokey, showing the bunt attempt. Eck says he understands the strategy but, “If it doesn’t work, it looks horrible.” They also examine Millar’s footwork on the throwing error charged to Pedro that kept the O’s rally going. Instead of posting up at the front corner of the bag with his right foot so he can stretch towards Pedro with his left (and his glove), Millar is facing the bag with his left foot in the center so that he has to reach across his body to handle the throw. Basically, he nonchalanted it and cost us a couple of runs.

I turn it off. What’s demoralizing isn’t losing—we’ll lose 60–70 games this year (knock wood)—it’s playing badly. If this had been the first week of the NFL season, the announcers would have said this team has a lot of work to do.

I can’t help running a quick postmortem, scanning the story in the morning paper. Francona stands by his man Sveum, saying Kapler would have been meat if he’d gone. I hope this kind of denial isn’t indicative of the new emperor.

SK:The bad news this morning is that the Red Sox lost their opener and Pedro looked very mortal. The good news is that there was baseball.

SO:Pedro had a bad inning, helped along by Millar. Still, he settled down after the second, and we were in the game till Timlin let it get away.

Think Pokey bunted on his own? Is he going to be like Steve “Psycho” Lyons?

SK:Yeah, I think Pokey Reese bunted on his own, and I think it was the break point in the game for the Red Sox. You can say there are a lot of games left and I would agree, but Gil Hodges (I think it was Hodges) said, “First games are big games,” and if he meant they set the tone, I agree. And I know, I know, two-out rallies are always chancy. All the more reason to play it straight, right? Here’s your situation: Millar, who really only hits middle relievers with reliability, opens the fourth by flying out to center. Kapler singles. Tek-money—Tek-small-change in April—hits a bat-busting pop to short. Two out. Bellhorn doubles. Runners at second and third, that sets the stage for Mr. Reese, who can tie the game with a righteous single. Instead, he bunts—hard—and is out easily, pitcher to first. Easy to read his thinking: Ponson’s a porker, if I place it right, I get on to load ’em up for Johnny Damon, or maybe Kapler scores. But even if Kapler does score, we’re still behind, and that early in the game, you’d think he’d be swinging away. So yeah—I think it was a plan he hatched in his own head, and a classic case of a baseball player taking dumb pills. Which leads me to something my elder son said this afternoon: “Dad, I don’t envy you this book—you could have picked the wrong year. A team this high-octane could stall with the wrong manager and be out of it in the first month.” I don’t say it will happen, but he’s got a point, and I hope the Pokester got a stern talking-to about that bunt.