Stephen King - Faithful

“Who’s winning?”

“I just turned it on,” he says. “I know McCarty has an RBI.”

He sees my Fenway 1912 shirt, I see his—from last year’s ALCS—and he gets out to talk. In February he went down to the Civic Center to see the Sox Winter Caravan and got autographs from Kevin Millar and Bill Mueller. “I was worried it would be weird, you know, the big-kid thing, but once I got up to the table, I got this smile on my face, and the guys were cool.”

We weigh our chances for the season.

“Now there’s a rumor Nomar might have a tear,” he says, “not just a strain like they’ve been saying.”

He also wonders why Trot’s taking so long to come back from a hamstring, and we bat around the possibility of him being on steroids (or off them now).

His wife returns, and they’ve got to run. “Go Sox!” she calls, and they’re gone.

The tow truck comes, finally, and Trudy, to drive me home. It’s too hot upstairs, so I go down to the cool basement and watch the rest of the game on her parents’ old TV. It’s 4–0 Sox, and Arroyo’s only given up three hits. He’s going after guys with his fastball, dropping his sweeping curve in for strikes. Toronto’s a good-hitting club, and the SkyDome’s a launching pad, but he’s putting down Wells, Delgado and Hinske in order.

There’s a grounder to third, and to my surprise, Kevin Youkilis fields it. Bill Mueller’s knee is aching, so Francona doesn’t want him playing on Toronto’s hard turf. When Youkilis comes up to bat, they show him earlier in the game, hitting his first major league home run and then trotting back to the dugout, where the guys give him the silent treatment—a tradition with rookies. Youkilis gets it, giving phantom high fives. Only after he sits down do the guys break up and congratulate him.

Arroyo’s making his case to be the number five starter. Yesterday, in Pawtucket, in the first inning of his first start, Kim gave up a three-run homer. Trade rumors are cropping up, the most notable, Kim and Johnny D to Seattle for Freddy Garcia, who we then ship to KC for Carlos Beltran. Beltran’s a serious five-tool player, but I’d hate to lose Johnny’s laid-back personality. He’s a fan favorite, especially with the ladies, and great for the clubhouse. Though I’d love to see Beltran in right and Johnny in center.

But look at the team we have on the field right now: Arroyo and Mirabelli, Youkilis, Crespo, Bellhorn and Ortiz, McCarty, Damon and Millar. And we’re winning—on the road.

Arroyo goes eight, giving up 3 hits, walking none and striking out 6. Foulke closes easily (something I’m getting accustomed to), and though my car broke down and I’ve gotten nothing done today, I’m happy.

In the Bronx, the Yanks are in extra innings against Seattle, tied 7–7. I watch for a couple innings, but not a lot’s happening, and there’s yardwork to be done. After dinner, when I check ESPN, the final’s a lopsided 13–7, Seattle. Once Rivera was gone, the Mariners feasted on Gabe White.

So we’re in first again, barely.

SO:And it will forever be known as: The Day of the Youkilis.

SK:The Revenge of Moneyball.

And the O’s lost again, so we gained ground on them too. I know it’s pointless to be scoreboard-watching in May, but I can’t help it, just as I can’t help looking for the Pirates’ score (we beat the Giants again) and seeing if we’re still in the cellar.

In their search for a number five starter, the Yankees pick up former Devil Ray Tanyon Sturtze from the Dodgers for a player to be named later. Sturtze’s 3-0 for triple-A Las Vegas, but is that really the best Brian Cashman and George can do? Wait till July and the trade deadline.

In Toronto, it’s Pedro-Halladay III, a series I’m growing fond of. Pedro won the first two, and Manny gives him a 1–0 lead with an RBI single in the first. Both aces look good, setting the sides down quickly. In the bottom of the fourth, Youkilis misplays a carpet hopper from Vernon Wells. “You can’t do that in a close game,” I tell him through the TV. “Especially with Carlos up next.” Delgado makes my fears a reality, taking a high fastball over the right-field fence. 2–1 Toronto. Besides that one mistake to a quality hitter, Pedro looks good. In the sixth, he gives up another run on a blooper by Reed Johnson that Johnny gets a late jump on.

Halladay’s over 120 pitches and finished after seven. Likewise, Pedro’s over 100 and done. We have two full innings to go after their relievers. With one out in the eighth, Ortiz doubles. Rather than let Manny tie the game with one swing, Carlos Tosca decides to put him on. It’s an easy decision. Dauber goes down looking, Tek goes 0-2 before popping to first, and that’s our best chance. Terry Adams works a scoreless ninth and Doc Halladay finally beats us.

It’s not disappointing. I’m sure Pedro’s not happy, but Roy Boy threw well. It was a good, tight game with Hall of Fame matchups like Halladay-Manny and Pedro-Delgado. Major League Baseball, and you can’t gripe about that.

The Yanks play a similar game, but get it done, Kevin Brown going to 5-0 as they beat the M’s 2–1 and move back into first.

After a brief return to first place (one day—a cup of coffee, really) the Red Sox gently subside once more to second, half a game behind the Yankees. The most notable event of our final two games in the CreepyDome—which was actually pretty full for the weekend games—was the major league debut of Kevin Youkilis, subbing for Bill Mueller (sore knee). Youkilis hit a home run in his first at-bat and will bear watching if only because he personifies the Moneyball mind-set and strategy, which can be defined as a way of thinking that both arises from and revolves around on-base percentage. Youkilis, the so-called “Greek God of Walks,” tied a minor-league record, reaching base in seventy-one straight games, [13] The record he shares, perhaps not so coincidentally, with fellow former Portland Sea Dog Kevin Millar. SO and it’s sort of a wonder it’s taken him as long as it has to reach the bigs, especially under the umbrella of Major Theo. It will be interesting to see how he develops, and how much PT he gets as the season heats up.

In the mail, a box from Steve with a YANKEES HATER cap in Sox colors. The logo, yh, is designed so it looks the same upside-down. “Cool hat,” Steph says, and once he puts it on, it’s his.

Driving him to his sax lesson, I tell him about another YANKEES HATER cap I saw Steve wearing earlier in the year. It was black with an orange logo, like a Giants cap.

“Do the Giants hate the Yankees?” he asks.

I try to remember if the Yanks ever beat those great early Mays teams (just once, in ’51, when they were still the New York Giants). It takes me a minute to recall the ’62 World Series, when Bobby Richardson snagged Willie McCovey’s liner. It was the Yanks’ last pre-Steinbrenner championship.

“No,” I say, “they’re too busy hating the Dodgers.”

And then I realize that, though you never hear them bandied about as a cursed or hard-luck club, the San Francisco Giants have never won a World Series.

Although it might have just been my imagination (I’ve been accused of having an overactive one), I thought I heard cries of “Dead team walking!” tonight in the hollow air-conditioned confines of Tropicana Field. How avidly Lou Piniella, fiery competitor that he is, must be dining upon his own liver these days! The Devil Rays (until further notice to be called the hapless Devil Rays in this fan’s notes) looked much improved on paper, but as one wit or another has surely pointed out, baseball games aren’t played on paper, and the D-Rays— excusez-moi, the hapless D-Rays—have the worst record in the majors, just 10 wins against 27 losses after tonight’s contest, which the Red Sox won, 7–3.