Stephen King - Faithful

In the middle of the game, we switch to ESPN to check on the Pirates, who are facing Clemens, and find out that Piazza’s hit the homer he’s been waiting for so long, finally overtaking Pudge. The commentator says he’s now “the greatest home-run-hitting catcher in history.”

“No,” I correct him, “he just has the most homers.”

Each time Manny comes to the plate, everyone in Jacobs Field boos except for a woman’s tiny voice picked up by the microphone: “We love you, Manny.” With two down and two strikes on him in the ninth, the crowd rises, hoping for some payback, and Manny hits a screw-you double off the wall in right-center. When Tek singles, Sveum—up three runs—gets aggressive and sends Manny. Manny doesn’t expect it; he hasn’t been running hard from second and has to turn it on. The throw from Jody Gerut’s a two-hopper, in time, but Victor Martinez is too worried about Manny and drops it. 9–5 Sox, and a very quiet crowd.

SK:So the five-game skid is history, Bronson Arroyo gets a W, and David Ortiz gets a couple of dingers. One more milepost on the long, long road. The important thing—the thing that absolutely should go in the book—is that I happened to watch one of those ads for Foxwoods Casino with the sound turned off and had a revelation: all of the people in the ad—gamblers, entertainers, cooks, waiters, and waitresses—look like utter lunatics .

We must go there, Stewart.

We must go there soon.

SO:If you really wanna go, let’s go when we can catch a Norwich Navigators game (maybe against Portland); they’re right up the road, and their little double-A park’s nice. Great cheeseburgers too.

When I went to bed last night, the Yanks were losing late in Oakland to Barry Zito. The first thing I do when I wake up is hit ESPN, and, perfect timing, they’re showing the highlights. Both BALCO boys went deep for the Yanks. They’re down 3–2 in the ninth when A-Rod’s up with no outs and no one on. He swings, and just the way the camera pans toward the stands, zooming on the crowd, lets me know the ball’s gone. Then with two down and two on, Tony Clark hits a quail toward the gap in left that the A’s outfielder can’t quite get to. 4–3 Yanks. And then there’s Mariano Rivera dealing with two on and two out, and the A’s last hope pops to second.

Not the way I wanted to start the day. So the Yanks are playing like the regular season means something. And the A’s, for all of Billy Beane’s genius, still haven’t figured out that great starters are useless without a decent pen.

SK:Meet me at Foxwoods.

Meanwhile, as for Bronson versus BK, all I can say is that I have rarely seen any pitcher in my life who looked as uncomfortable on the mound as Mr. Kim did last night. Memo to Theo Epstein: It’s time to rent that video, FINDING NOMO.

And the Yankees are apparently not going to lose again this season.

Or so it looks now.

I still think this year’s Yankee tootsies are made of clay.

SO:They scored on Mr. Kim every inning he was out there. If Theo doesn’t get FINDING NOMO, he might be calling Bronson on the TELEFON.

The great Criswell predicts: The Yanks lose to-nite. Let it be so.

And that’s clay and steroids.

A nice matchup for the final game of the Cleveland set: Pedro, who’s undefeated lifetime in Jacobs Field, against their young ace C. C. Sabathia. Sabathia comes out blazing, while Matt Lawton puts Pedro’s first pitch over the wall in dead center. Two hits and a grounder later, we’re down 2–0.

It’s a fast game, with both aces going right after batters. Old-time hockey, eh? Lou Merloni’s playing third for them, which is just weird. Pokey triples, but we strand him.

In the sixth, Bellhorn doubles. Kapler singles, and Sveum, down two runs with nobody out, holds Bellhorn. Ortiz grounds into a DP, but Bellhorn scores, and then Manny, who owns Sabathia, plants one in the right-field stands to tie the game. Meanwhile, Pedro’s only given up one hit since the first inning.

In the seventh, McCarty’s on first with two down and Pokey at the plate. I tell Steph that Pokey’s going to hit a double to the gap and we’ll get to see big, gangly McCarty come wheeling all the way around. Unlike most of my hip-shot predictions, this one comes true—McCarty pumping his arms like a crazed windmill—and we’ve got the lead. Bellhorn comes up and doubles down the line in right, and Pokey scores easily. 4–2.

Pedro’s been waiting awhile and struggles in the bottom of the inning, putting two on with one out, and who should step in but Lou. I’ve always had a soft spot for Lou, but we need a win here. He grounds one to Pokey—tailor-made double-play ball—and I’m pissed when Bellhorn loses his grip on the transfer. Millar, of all people, bails him out with the glove, making a tough catch in foul ground down the right-field line.

We add a run in the eighth, and on comes Embree to set up and Foulke to close.

As the great Criswell predicted, the Yankees did indeed lose. Vazquez faltered in the middle innings, so we’re a game up on them. The buzz is just temporary, since it appears now that Nomar won’t be back till June, and Trot has problems with his left quad and is sitting. “We need those guys,” David Ortiz says, “like a human being needs to be fed every day.”

Last night Steph noticed that Ron Jackson was coaching first. The paper has the answer: Lynn Jones hurt his eye at home in northwestern Pennsylvania. It sounds serious, because Francona says, “There’s a chance they can save some of his eyesight.”

Our league-best record is long gone, obviously, but I’m shocked to find that distinction now belongs to the Angels, with the surprising White Sox right behind them. The season’s so young that one hot streak puts you on top.

Tomorrow we’ve got Monster seats, front row, and I call the Sox customer service line to see if I can bring my fishing net for BP. The woman who answers doesn’t know. She asks around the office; the consensus is that security will probably not let it in, but there’s no set policy. I tell her I’ll try. Got to make them make the play, right?

Tonight it’s Wake and his 2.25 ERA against Jeremy Affeldt, who’s yet to win a game. I’m thinking we should score a bunch of runs, but it’s Wake who struggles. It’s a windy night—usually good for a knuckler—but his ball looks awful straight. It also doesn’t help that in the third we have Carlos Beltran picked off first but Bellhorn—maybe distracted by Desi Relaford trying to score from third—drops Millar’s toss. It’s 2–0, but not for long. In our half, Johnny answers with a leadoff shot over the Royals’ pen. Bellhorn singles, Manny singles for the second time, Millar doubles. Tie game.

Between innings, the camera finds Trot in the dugout—a nice surprise—and there’s Prince Nomar. Neither’s close to being ready; it’s more of a token appearance to raise morale.

Word on Lynn Jones is that somehow he gouged his eye with a screwdriver. They’re still not sure if he’ll regain sight in it. While he’s out, former Sox catcher Bill Haselman, who played with the PawSox last year, will coach first.

In the sixth, Wake gives up five hits and Bill Mueller rushes a throw on a chopper, sailing it into the stands. The Royals score four runs before the creaky Benito Santiago grounds into a round-the-horn double play.

By the eighth Affeldt’s pitch count is pushing 110. He’s a young guy but he’s never gone this deep in a game before. Tony Pena must want to conserve his pen for the rest of the series, because he leaves him in. Manny singles for the third time. Kapler hits a short fly to left that the wind takes away from Matt Stairs; it falls, and we’ve got first and second for Mirabelli, who lines one into the left-field corner. Stairs fires the ball in to second, but it’s wide and gets by Relaford, and Kapler scoots in to make it 6–4.