Stephen King - Faithful

Oh yeah… and when Alex Rodriguez grounded out weakly, pitcher to first, in the fourth, the disgruntled fans in Yankee Stadium actually booed their preseason darling. Music to my ears. I’m also an emotional guy, at least when it comes to The Game. There’s really nothing like baseball, especially when you don’t have to freeze your ass off on a cold, rainy night in the Bronx.

And a postscript. Today the New York Post had fun comparing Johnny Damon, with his new beard and extralong hair, to a Cro-Magnon cave-man. Johnny just scored Boston’s seventh run of the night.

We take the Cross Bronx, driving by the Yankee Stadium exit right around game time. I don’t turn on the radio. I’ll let this one be a surprise—like opening a present or a door (the lady or the tiger?). There’s so much chatter in New York, I figure I’ll pick up bits of the game on the street, like a pulse underriding the city.

Our first hint is in the hotel bar—where I notice Steph is bravely wearing his Wake shirt. As we pass the bar, a TV tells us it’s 6–0, but I’m not sure in whose favor. I see Billy Mueller make a nice off-balance throw to close an inning, and Lowe making a fist, so I’m hopeful. We’re sitting so far in the dark back of the lounge that we can’t see the TV, but when we come back out, it’s 6–0 Sox and Donovan Osborne’s in for the Yanks.

We make some noise, attracting the attention of a drunk Mets fan. “Red Sox, huh? All I gotta say is Bill Buckner, okay? Bill, Buckner.”

“I hope you guys have a better year this year,” I say.

Downstairs, the doorman’s shaking his head at how bad the Yanks have been so far. “They’ll be all right,” he says. “George will pay.”

A billboard for an investment firm in Times Square says BRAVE AS A RED SOX FAN IN THE BRONX. But all around me I’m seeing people in Sox caps and shirts laughing and giving each other the thumbs-up—something I’ve never experienced before in New York.

We’re finishing dinner when Trudy’s sister and her boys arrive with a new score: 10–2. The two were on a homer by Matsui, their only clutch guy. We stop at a liquor store on the way back to the hotel for some champagne, and I can’t resist asking the guy behind the counter in a Yanks hat who’s winning the game.

As I write this, it’s 11–2 in the eighth, and the only reason it isn’t 11–0 is because Derek got a little tired there. I think we’re gonna go up on ’em 4–1, which would be very swede. Knock on wood.

Uh-oh, who’s Lenny DiNardo? Still worrying even with one out.

Red Sox win, 11–2… and Eckersley’s on Extra Innings ! Whee!

Down in the city I don’t get Eck, but at one in the morning I do get WCBS replaying the entire game, so here I am, half-buzzed and headachy from champagne, watching a game that’s already long over in a darkened hotel room while everyone else sleeps, just for the sheer pleasure of seeing how we did it. Bill Mueller with a three-run shot, and, basically, they didn’t throw a quality pitcher at us all night. Looks like Torre wrote this one off, knowing he’s got the matchup tomorrow and hoping Vazquez can get Sunday’s game to the pen.

In the hotel, as I’m getting on the elevator to go down to Times Square, a woman in a Sox hat and shirt gets out—obviously going to today’s game. And in the Guggenheim, as I wind my way down, I pass two boys in Sox hats, and their dad wearing a cherry red COWBOY UP T-shirt.

In the taxi on the way to Chinatown, the radio’s on low, but I can still hear that the Sox are up 2–1. Go ahead, Bronson (named, yes, after Charles Bronson).

Hours later, back at the hotel, two decked-out Jets fans get on the elevator. I’d completely forgotten that today’s the NFL draft. I’ve been seeing lots of Pats hats, but I just expect that now.

It’s almost five when we get back to the room. The game should be over, so I pop on the TV for the score. It’s in extra innings, 2–2, and Foulke’s on. There are two down in the eleventh and Sheffield’s on first. I’m supposed to get dressed for dinner and the theater tonight, then jump a cab out to the airport to pick up Caitlin, and time’s tight, but I sit on the edge of the bed with the boys and watch Tek gun down Sheff trying to get in scoring position for Bernie, with a nice slap tag by Crespo at second.

In the top of the twelfth, Manny doubles to the base of the wall in right-center. Tek fights off three or four outside pitches from Quantrill before he gets one he can pull to the right side, moving Manny over with a ground out. Quantrill just nicks Millar’s shirtfront with a pitch, and the double play’s in order, but Bellhorn drives one medium deep to center, and Bernie, with his weak arm, has been playing in and has to go back to get it. Manny scores easily, 3–2 Sox.

Timlin comes on to close, but we’ve got to go. We call up from the lobby because we’ve forgotten Caitlin’s flight information, and there are two outs, nobody on and a 1-2 count on Jeter, and then, in the cab, we hear that the Yanks have just lost to the Sox. This is the kind of demoralizing game we’ve already lost two of to Baltimore, and it’s sweet to win one, especially in someone else’s house. It’s even sweeter because we’re in New York, as if the city’s ours now.

The local news at eleven has found a way to soften the blow. They open the sports with a long segment on the Giants trading for #1 pick Eli Manning, then show A-Rod making a nice backhand and getting Millar, then A-Rod homering, before showing Bellhorn’s sac fly and the final score. The homer was the only hit Bronson Arroyo gave up in six innings, but you’d never know that.

Holy moly, the BoSox did it again. It took them twelve innings today, but they beat the Yankees 3–2. Keith Foulke got the win in relief (“vultured” the win is the term baseball players use for this type of win, I believe; Timlin pitched the bottom of the twelfth and got the save). If it were possible to feel sorry for the Yankees, who are now four full games out of first place—although whether behind us or Baltimore I don’t at this moment know—I would feel almost sorry for them. Life being what it is, I don’t feel a bit sorry. Derek Jeter—known in my household as Great Satan Jeter—is now 0 for his last thousand or so. The fans don’t boo him, though. Jeter seems truly beyond the boo-birds. But the Yankees, man…I mean, how long can you go on saying, “Don’t worry, it’s only April”?

Another six days, actually.

Meanwhile, we’re throwing Pedro at them tomorrow, and going for the sweep. We’re only five wins away from taking the series…that’s the series for the year . Man, I can’t believe this. Something’s gotta go wrong.

Unless dead or insane, I will be writing about tomorrow’s game.

It’s the last game of Round 2, with the BoSox going for the sweep over the Yankees. In the top of the first inning, the young Yankee pitcher, Javier Vazquez, looked terrific—determined to be the stopper. Ortiz touched him for a single, but that was it. Now Pedro Martinez is on the mound for us, and the real question is which Pedro is going to show up: the mound-wise sharpie who pitched in Toronto last time, or the mediocre rag-arm who started the season against Baltimore at Camden Yards (and then left the park early, sparking a minor media flurry). He’s 3-2 to Jeter to start with; Jeter, 0 for his last 21, strikes out to make that 0 for his last 22. It’s the worst streak of Jeter’s career, and given that sort of funk, tells us very little about the state of Pedro. But even as I write the words, there goes Bernie Williams, 3 to 1. That looks a little better, and has silenced the massive chant (another sellout today at the Stadium) of “Pedro sucks.” And Kevin Millar just made an incredible sliding catch on A-Rod to finish the first: no runs and no runners for the Yankees.