Stephen King - Faithful

Timlin throws a perfect top of the ninth. Before Johnny can lead off the bottom, two fans run out on the field, delighting the crowd. When Johnny finally gets up, he’s laughing and loose, and walks on a pitch that’s really too close to take. MacDougal, the Royals’ young closer, stares in at veteran ump Joe West; West whips off his mask and stares back. A passed ball puts Johnny at second, so we don’t have to worry about the double play. With Bellhorn up, I expect we’re in for a long at-bat, but he gets a pitch belt-high and yanks it deep to right. Juan Gonzalez runs a few steps toward the corner, then pulls up as the ball lands a dozen rows in. The game’s tied at 6 and Fenway’s on its feet. Here in Avon, we’re hollering and trading high fives.

They don’t want to pitch to Manny with the game on the line, but they don’t intentionally walk him either, just nibble a little and then stay away on 3-2.

MacDougal’s gone and righty Scott Sullivan’s on. With two down, Francona pinch-hits the switch-hitting Tek for the righty Kapler. Tek rips Sullivan’s first pitch down the right-field line for a sure double. Manny’s running on contact. The ball skims along the wall instead of kicking out. “Don’t touch it!” I coach the fans past the Pesky Pole. I see other fans along the wall doing the same with their neighbors, holding their arms out wide as if to prove they’re not fouling anyone. Gonzalez scoops the ball and fires to Relaford, whose relay to Santiago is just enough off the plate to the first-base side to let Manny tiptoe in standing up. He leaps into the arms of Kevin Millar and the Sox win 7–6. Here at home, Steph and I are jumping and high-fiving, slapping at each other like first-graders.

It’s a huge win—a steal, really. Two in the eighth, then three in the ninth off a cold closer. Manny ran hard all the way and Sveum sent him in—classic strategy at home: play for the win and make them throw you out. I watch Extra Innings, wallowing in the highlights and locker-room interviews. Sox win, Sox win!

SO:Man, what a wild one. I’m still short of breath from screaming. It’s amazing how loud you have to yell at the TV so the players can hear you.

SK:…so it was spoken, and so it was. My God, Bellhorn’s starting to look like the deal of the century, isn’t he? (BELLHORN, BOOK, AND CANDLE, starring Spencer Tracy). He cranks one to get us even, and then Manny (MANNY THE TORPEDOES, starring Randolph Scott) struts across home plate three minutes later, arms raised like a ref signaling the extra point’s good. And all at once we’ve got a little breathing room between us and the Yankees. Have you noticed, by the way, that on Extra Innings they now play Darth Vader music before giving the Yankees score? And call them the Evil Empire? Hee! Hating the Yankees is very much in vogue, but since we were doing it long before Yankee-hating was cool (outside of New England, that is), I’m sending you your own YANKEES HATER hat, with the spiffy yhintertwined logo on the front.

Also, the Coen Brothers remake: MUELLER’S CROSSING.

And the Hammer Horror remake: CURSE OF THE DAMON, titled JOHNNY EVIL for DVD release.

The art-film classic LEAVING NOMAR.

That gritty piece of ’50s realism: I TROTTED ALL THE WAY HOME.

The soft-core classic PLEASE ME ORTIZ ME.

Nor can we forget the hardcore STROKE ME POKEY.

Bottom line? Baseball’s a wonderful game. There’s no greater thrill than when your team pulls one out. And you can’t get that from a newspaper story. TV’s better, but there’s really nothing on God’s earth like being at the ballpark and getting on your feet in the bottom of the ninth, hot dog still in hand, when the Sox pull one out. If Heaven’s that good, I guess I wanna go.

Born Again in New England.

SO:Was at a game last year against Clemboy and the Yanks where John Williams threw out the first ball (I think he bounced it), and when Clem jogged out to the pen, the PA played Lord Vader’s March—perfect for a guy who started out as a headstrong young Jedi apprentice from a dusty, forlorn planet, then felt betrayed and hurt, grew power-mad and crossed over to the dark side.

What’s better than the Sox winning? The Sox winning and the Yanks losing. Last night the Mariners rocked Jon Lieber, so we’re two games up. And we can’t forget the O’s, just a half game behind them. Toronto’s under .500, and Tampa Bay’s already in a death spiral. That’s the kind of year a fan fears—out of the chase by May (like the Pirates, who got one-hit last night). As Sox fans, we need to remember how lucky we are.

And we’re damn lucky today, with front-row seats on the Monster. All along Lansdowne, people stare at the net; Trudy pretends she’s not with me. The guy at the turnstile asks me what I think I’m going to do with it, but just laughs and lets me through. Trudy and the kids can’t believe I’m getting away with this.

The Royals are hitting, clumps of players spread around the outfield. It’s a bright cool day up on the Monster, and the wind’s in our faces, perfect for home runs. We’re in M9, next to the second light standard, but that’s too far toward center. I stake my claim to an empty spot in M5 above the power alley.

I’ve just started to extend the handle when a ball comes right at me. It’s going to be short. I reach out and down. I’d have it if the handle were fully extended.

“Hey, no fair!” Trudy calls from M9. “That’s cheating.”

With the handle fully extended, the net’s about ten feet long, giving me incredible range. It really is unfair.

Mike Sweeney’s taking his cuts. He sends one directly over my head. I raise the net straight up and even jump, but the ball carries over it, banging off the third-row facade and then back past us and down to the field again.

A few swings later, Sweeney hits one just to my right. It’s going to be close. I scoot a few steps and swing the net over. The ball clanks off the handle and drops at my feet. Inelegant, but hell, it’s a ball, and Sweeney’s as good a player as they’ve got.

I’m not sure who hits me the next one. It’s right at me, and a few feet out from the lip, so I’m not taking it away from anyone, but I misjudge it and it bangs off the handle a good foot from the head of the net, and falls back to the field. The boos and laughs shower down, and I slump back in a stool and hang my head. “Nice going, Netman.” “Netguy, you suck!”

The guy beside me points out a dent in the handle. It’s a good-sized ding, the metal buckled inward. I can’t close the handle all the way anymore.

Juan Gonzalez puts a bunch out by the Coke bottles, and then some guy in a blue fleece sweatshirt hits another right at me. It rises past the solid background of the roof and up into the blue sky, then falls fast. It’s going to be short, and I dip the net out and down. I don’t think I’ve got enough reach, but I must, because it’s a swish, just a gentle tug on my arms and then the ball swinging in the mesh, caught. The crowd goes wild. “Yeah, go ahead, Netman!” “Hey, gimme one—isn’t it catch and release?”

The ball has a pink stamp on the sweet spot: KCR enclosed by a thin circle, like something on special at CVS. The hitter was Benito Santiago—the BEN from his bathead’s imprinted backwards across the cowhide.

Like Mark Bellhorn, I had a chance to redeem myself. And just in time too, because that’s it for BP. Packing up, I’m visited by two people. A burly security dude who tells me I’ll have to surrender the net to him before game time (so I don’t interfere with play), and a reporter for the Greenfield, Mass, paper who saw the catch and wants to interview me. I get to use my Bellhorn analogy. “You’re down one minute and the next you’re up again. That’s baseball.” And, canned and corny as that sounds, it is: as long as you keep at it—stubbornly, dumbly—something good might happen.