Stephen King - Faithful

SK:But don’t you see? Your very argument proves what a striking anomaly the Red Sox are. All the clubs you’ve mentioned—in all the various sports—in this and in previous e-mails have won it all at least once in the last eighty or so years. Do I need to finish this thought? I mean, hello? “One of these things is not like the others / One of these things just doesn’t belong / One of these things is not like the others / Tell me while I sing this song.”

SO:By the same token, all of these teams were in our strikingly anomalous position (which we share with the Cubs, White Sox, Brewers, Mariners, Astros, Rangers, D-Rays, Padres, Expos, Rockies, not to mention dozens of NFL clubs (the St. Louis/Arizona Cards have never won one, or the Saints, or the Bills, the Minny Vikes, etc., etc.), dozens of NBA and NHL franchises, whole boatloads of NCAA Division I schools, etc.) up until t = +0, when all their troubled histories were redeemed by the one resource the world can count on: time. It’s inevitable. Maybe not in our lifetimes, but that just means our faith has to be strong.

Which is one reason why I dug “Butterfingers” so much—how you framed Earl Candleton’s life (and error) in terms of salvation or damnation. Take Me Out to the Ballgame/Shall We Gather at the River. Hail-Marymotherofgrace…“I thought I was in Hell.” You really made us feel for the guy, so when the dishwashing kids came out after you’d used the old rewind to redeem #11 and said, “Sometimes the good guys win,” damned if I didn’t get a little teary for Billy Buck and for all of us.

And Billy Buck, you know we don’t blame you. It was that lousy Schiraldi.

SK:I think Schiraldi might have been in some form of analysis or therapy following that season—I’m almost sure of this. And he was my daughter’s first crush…a young man, and fair.

SO:He shoulda gone into analysis before the Angels series. And McNamara should have had his head examined for using him in both.

I guess some young girls just dig troubled guys.

SK:“Brewers, Mariners, Astros, Rangers, D-Rays, Padres, Expos, Rockies.” Johnny-come-latelies.

“But Pokey, oh my, he’s just struggling.” Yeah, but he’s a PR Mastuh!

SO:I’ll cop to the Rocks and Rays being latecomers, but the Pods and Spos are looking at 30+ years of futility, the Stros at 40+, and the Rangers (as the Senators) have to go back to 1924 for their sole crown (compared to our five during that era).

Y’know, I just flat-out LIKE Pokey, despite him hitting .182 (67 points higher than Ellis Burks). He’s got a major league glove, and we haven’t seen much of that over the years.

SK:So do I—you just can’t NOT like him, can you? And he’s been steady-Eddie with the glove.

The Yanks won, but the O’s lost, so guess who’s all alone in first?

So far Doug Mirabelli has 3 homers in 9 at-bats. He sees his success as a product of his extra preparation. Playing once every five days, “I can put all my focus into that pitcher and watch video or whatever for four days and try to get a little edge for myself to feel confident going in there.” Which at least partially explains why over his career he’s a .270 hitter as a Sock and .213 as a Giant and Ranger.

The matchup tonight is in our favor again—Schilling-Batista—and the game goes as planned early on. Ortiz hits a two-run shot in the first and we hang on through six, when Toronto goes to their pen. Francona’s said that he’ll close with Williamson instead of Foulke, who’s thrown three straight days now, and maybe he’s worried about conserving the pen for this weekend in New York, because he leaves Schilling in too long in the seventh, and the Jays tie the game with four straight hits. “Take him out!” we’re screaming at the set.

In the eighth, Schilling comes back out. We just look at each other. Would Francona have done this at Fenway?

Mystery Malaska’s the only one warming as the Jays load the bases. Schilling’s pitch count’s above 120, and he’s consistently leaving the ball up. Number nine hitter Chris Gomez makes the decision for Francona, hooking a grand slam over the left-field fence, and Toronto wins their first home game, 7–3.

Put this one on the list of games we should have won. When Schill struggles in the seventh, go to a stopper like Embree, then use any of your setup guys in the eighth and close with Williamson. What’s the point of carrying extra arms if you don’t use them?

At least the Yankees lost. The ChiSox got to Moose early and hung on, 4–3. It’s slight consolation. I’m so disgusted I don’t even watch the postgame, just turn the channel, as if I can make the loss go away.

SO:Captain, I’m detecting high levels of Gradium.

SK:Boy, you got that right.

The O’s beat the D-Rays, so they’re in first again.

The Courant ’s all excited about the Sox-Yanks rivalry. Because Hartford’s halfway between the two cities, the paper has a beat writer for both teams. The Yankee guy’s a total homer, while the Red Sox guy, as befits the tradition, is a skeptic. Both dwell on Aaron Boone and Game 7, as if that’s the only thing that happened last year.

We’re headed down to New York to spend the weekend with Trudy’s parents before they leave from the West Side piers for the transatlantic cruise they’ve always talked about. Trudy’s sister and her boys will be there. We’ll go to a few museums, take in a show, wander around Chinatown, but one thing we won’t be doing is going to the games.

Tonight it’s Red Sox–Yankees, Round 2, Game 1. So far the advantage goes to the Red Sox—they’re up 6–0 in the fifth inning, courtesy of home runs by Millar, Bellhorn, and a three-run job by Bill Mueller. Do I need to bother with all this in-game detail? Probably not; O’Nan will have it. In fact I’m starting to suspect that O’Nan is going to finish the season with roughly seven hundred pages of manuscript. That man takes his baseball seriously.

The question I’ve been asking myself is whether or not I need to bother with a diary at all. I can hear my mother asking me, “Do you have to jump in the lake just because Stewart O’Nan does?” No, Ma. And certainly I don’t expect to be scrivening away at this on every game day, but it seems to me that I do have to add something from time to time. Call it a kind of balance. Stewart’s the brains of the operation, no doubt. He knows where all the fielders are playing at any given time, and who’ll be covering second, Bellhorn or Reese (Garciaparra soon, if God is good), in any given situation. I’m more of a from-the-gut guy.

Also a superstitious guy. I don’t necessarily know where the fielders are, but I do know enough to hit the MUTE button on the remote control when the opposing team’s up, because everyone knows it’s unlucky to listen to the announcers when the opposing team’s at bat. They always score when fans do that. You should know that I’ll be doing the MUTE thing for the Sox all season long, so relax. I’ll also be turning my cap around when we’re a run or two down in the late innings, and charting pitches when the opposing guy is really good—it’s a helluva jinx. I got Moose Mussina that way, and expect to get Victor Zambrano (Devil Rays ace, currently 3-1) in the same fashion when he pitches against us.

And okay, quite often when the Red Sox are only up by a run or so in the late innings, I simply turn the idiot box off for a few minutes. Every superstitious fan knows that not watching for a while can also be good mojo, but basically I do it because I’m too scared to watch. Especially if there are men from the opposing team on base. I made it through Nightof the Living Dead and The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, but baseball—especially stretch-run baseball—shreds my nerves. Now, though, it’s 6–0 Red Sox in the fifth, and Derek Lowe doesn’t look too bad (don’t worry, I knocked on wood when I said it).