Stephen King - Faithful

“No doubt about it.”

“Are you still a Dodger fan?”

“Still a Dodger fan, still a fan of baseball.”

“You check their box score every morning?”

“No, I don’t check ’em, but I pull for ’em when I see ’em.”

“So you hope to see ’em this fall?”

“That’d be nice.”

And that’s it, I thank him and he’s gone to the next mike, the next camera. I’ve definitely crossed the line with my impersonation of a journalist, but, as a fan, it’s my duty to take advantage of whatever access I can get, for the sheer thrill of it.

Johnny Damon’s not here yet, but they’re going to start the movie, so we crowd into the theater with Kevin Millar and the owners and everyone else. Down front, a radio team introduces all the Sox VIPs, who stand in turn to receive their applause. When they call Johnny Damon’s name, Big Sam stands up as a joke. Finally the filmmaker, Paul Doyle, thanks everyone who helped and says, “The fans are the Red Sox,” a sentiment which seems true even before he presents his evidence. When I was talking to a real journalist earlier, I mentioned that I’ve only been a Sox fan for twenty-five years, so I’m new. I was here before Clemens, and I’ll be here long after Pedro. I’ve got a no-cut contract.

Steve’s in the film—briefly, a shot of him chatting with John Henry before the ill-fated season opener in Tampa Bay. That was the one Chad Fox blew, and while the movie doesn’t have the time to tell the rest of the story, after we dumped Fox he went on, along with former Sox closer Ugie Urbina, to defeat the Yanks and become a World Champion.

In trying to squeeze the whole season (and eight very different fans’ lives) into two hours, the film can’t connect all the dots. What strikes me most are all the Sox from last year’s squad who are gone: Shea Hillenbrand, Todd Walker, Brandon Lyon, Damian Jackson, John Burkett, Jeff Suppan, Scott Sauerbeck and of course manager Grady Little, who, since we’re in a room with the people who fired him, gets laughed at more than I find necessary. We witness Theo informing our number one prospect Freddy Sanchez that he’s being traded to Pittsburgh (for Suppan and Sauerbeck, neither of whom panned out).

The main tension and source of comedy in the movie is the tug-of-war between hope and pessimism. Angry Bill, a diehard who’s become a fixture on local call-in shows, vows that he’ll never believe in the Sox again, and sees disaster everywhere—until we take the A’s. Fireman Steve Craven is more laid-back. “We’ll get ’em tomorrow,” he says, and caps the film, after the disaster of Game 7, with his observation that all the losing will make finally winning it all that much sweeter, “don’t you think?”

It’s a fun film, but there’s so much missing. Where’s Bill James and his ridiculous bullpen-by-committee idea? Where’s BK giving us the finger? Where’s Roger’s last win in Fenway? Where’s Todd Walker’s 2-out, 2-strike shot against Baltimore? Even the intricacies of the playoff games are glossed over, so while it gets some of the emotion of being a Sox fan, it still just skims the surface, and being a Sox fan is about total immersion.

The after-party at Felt is crowded and loud, but there’s free Sam Adams, good hors d’oeuvres, and, for the brave, Fenway Franks served out of actual vendors’ steamers. Beside us, Luis Tiant is chowing down. I want to talk to Larry Lucchino, maybe interview him about growing up a Pirates fan in Pittsburgh, but he’s lost in the crowd, and then when I see him, he’s on his way out. We’ve got to get going too. Tomorrow’s a school day, it’s raining like hell and we’ve got a long drive.

On the way home, Trudy says she was disappointed that only Kevin Millar showed. I am too, but big props to Mr. Millar, who did it all cheerfully. In his business a night off’s a cherished rarity. I know I get on him for his lack of speed in the outfield, but, as with that difficult assignment, tonight he stepped up when no one else did.

Ellis Burks’s knee is hurting him, and his .133 batting average is hurting us, so he’s on the DL and the Dauber’s coming up from Pawtucket. In ten games there, he hit .350 with 5 homers and 11 RBIs, including a walk-off shot. “In baseball, you’ve got to keep plugging—until forever, I guess.” Is there any wonder why we love this guy?

A strange front must be moving over New England, because it’s been sunny all day here, but up in Boston it’s pouring. To cheer us up during the rain delay, NESN shows clips of Nomar and BK working out at Fenway earlier today. Nomar’s in shorts, taking grounders at half-speed and then talking with Mia Hamm over the low wall along third. BK’s also in shorts, playing catch in the outfield grass; you think of him as this whip of a kid, but his thighs are massive and cut like early Arnold. Don and Jerry make it sound like he’ll be our number five guy and Arroyo will go to the pen.

A good hour and a half after game time, the Sox call it.

The team’s so excited about BK’s rehab that he’s going to skip his last minor league start and pitch the first game of tomorrow’s day-night doubleheader. Schilling will still go tonight, and Lowe tomorrow night, meaning Wake is sacrificing his start, something he’s done throughout his long tenure with us, unselfish of him, and extremely valuable, giving his manager more flexibility.

Though he’s running and taking infield, the team says Nomar’s still at least two weeks away.

After a rainout on the 27th, Schilling (and the bullpen) tossed another gem last night, beating Tampa Bay, 6–0. Tampa Bay only got a single runner as far as third base, and while I like the D-Rays (I sometimes think of the Red Sox as my baseball wife and Not-So-Sweet Lou Piniella’s Devil Rays as my baseball mistress), I have to admit they are reverting to type after a hopeful start. But of course the Red Sox’s 13-6 start is also part of a pattern I have observed over the years; call it BoSox Happy Hoop Days. The way it works is simple enough: the Red Sox have a tendency to tear up the American League until the NBA playoffs wrap up; after that, more often than not they sputter. And leave us face it, a two-game lead over Baltimore and a four-game lead over the Yankees, while better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick, really ain’t all that much. Of course it beats being behind, but I think I’ll wait until after July Fourth to decide whether or not Schilling and Company are for real.

Footnote A on today’s entry: Our Mr. Kim, he of the restless middle finger, is back from sore-shoulder woes (and a stint in Pawtucket) today. He’s supposed to be limited to seventy-five pitches, after which Tim Wakefield will come in to relieve. Damn! It’s a day-night doubleheader, and I was kind of hoping Timmy would pull a Wilbur Wood and start both games (nor am I joking).

Footnote B on today’s entry: Although Derek Jeter’s hitless streak has now reached 0 for 32, tying a Yankee record (the immortal Jimmy Wynn, in 1977), the Bombers beat the Oakland A’s for the second straight night. They’ve only picked up half a game on Boston (because of that rainout), but the wins suggest that Boston’s weekend sweep in the Bronx mayhave had more to do with Red Sox pitching, defense, and the bat of Manny Ramirez than it did with any Yankee funk. It may be too early to declare the Red Sox the class of the AL East, but it may not be too early to at least suspect that this year they out class the New York Yankees.

I check the standings to see how many games up we are on the O’s (2) and discover we’ve got the best record in baseball. I think that’s got to be wrong, since we opened 3-4, but no, only the Twins and the pitching-rich Marlins are anywhere near us.