Stephen King - Faithful

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.

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.

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.”

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.

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.