Stephen King - Faithful

Nomie?

Well, everyone has his walk in life, or so ’tis said—the sportswriters have one, the ballplayers another. Maybe that’s the point. [24] So what the heck does that make me and O’Nan? And we kept pace with the Yankees. That might also be the point. And the hapless-no-more D-Rays won their twelfth straight. And Kevin Youkilis sat last night’s out while Mark Bellhorn did not do too much at third base. And Brian Daubach is still hitting meaningless home runs for the triple-A PawSox. Those things might also be the point. Multiple points are , after all, a possibility; even a probability in this increasingly complex world, but—

Git out, ball?

Caitlin’s graduation takes place on the high school’s baseball field. The stage is just beyond first base, and we’re sitting in shallow right. I’ve brought a pocket radio the Pirates gave away in the early ’80s with a single sneaky earbud, and as the speeches drag on, Minnesota loads the bases with no outs in the first. Lowe gets two ground balls, but again, we can’t turn either double play, and the Twins go up 2–0 without hitting the ball out of the infield.

Later, at the graduation party at our house, I tune in to find the Twins up 4–2 in the eighth. Pokey hurt his thumb and left the game early. It’s a worry because it’s the same thumb that put him out nearly all of last season.

The Twins hold on to win. I catch the highlights: Torii Hunter hit a two-run shot in the fifth to put them up 4–0. We got solo shots from Trot and Bellhorn, that was it.

Miraculously, the O’s beat the Yanks, so we’re still four and a half back.

We’re the first in Gate E for today’s businessman’s special, and nab the spot in the corner, hauling in five balls during BP. Pokey doesn’t hit, but Bill Mueller’s here, joking and taking grounders at third. One gets by him and rolls right to me. Thanks, Billy!

I hang around the dugout and get Manny to sign my glove, and Gabe Kapler and new guy Curtis Leskanic to sign my all-purpose pearl. I notice Pokey’s wearing a brace on his wrist and hand—another bad sign.

Wake looks better today. He doesn’t have that scuffling first inning, and David Ortiz gives us a lead in the bottom with a towering homer down the right-field line that goes over the Pesky Pole. I’ve poached a seat at the far end of the Sox dugout, right behind the camera well, and I have to look to the first-base ump for a fair call; behind him, Twins first baseman Matthew LeCroy is signaling foul.

The Twins get two on a strikeout and passed ball and a pair of wall-ball doubles to go up 2–1. In the sixth I snag a foul ball from Bellhorn, a two-hop chopper that clears the NESN camera in front of me. It’s the easiest play I’ve made all day, a chest-high backhander, so I’m in an even better mood when David Ortiz brings us back in the seventh, singling in Youk and Johnny.

For some reason, Francona leaves Wake in to pitch the eighth. He gets in trouble, giving up yet another wall double, but Scott Williamson comes on to shut the Twins down. Foulke throws a clean ninth, but we do nothing with our half, and go to extras.

Leading off the tenth, speedy Cristian Guzman hits a roller far to Nomar’s left. Nomar gloves it behind second, then spins to get more on his throw. It’s wide. Millar lays out but can’t keep it from going in the dugout. Jose Offerman bunts Guzman over to third, giving Lew Ford the chance to knock him in with a soft sac fly.

In our half we’ve got David Ortiz, Manny and Nomar. David flies to right, Manny waves at a third strike a foot outside, Nomar pops foul to the catcher, and we lose 4–3 on an unearned run. Pokey and McCarty make that play. At the very least, the throw doesn’t end up in the dugout. Millar also went a very bad-looking 0 for 4. I have no idea what he’s doing out there instead of McCarty after the seventh.

7:50 A.M.: The Red Sox have won exactly one game in each of their last three series, making them three for their last nine. Pokey Reese is injured. The pitching staff is struggling. Our position vis-à-vis the Yankees has for a second time sunk to a season-worst five and a half games out of first place, only this time we’ve lost our lead in the wild-card race (the Red Sox are currently tied with Oakland for that dubious honor). At the general store where I do my trading during the summer and fall months, people have started asking me “what’s wrong with the Red Sox.” (Because I have been interviewed on NESN, I am supposed to know.) I am also asked when I’m going to “go on down there and whip those boys into shape.” I guess I’d better do it this weekend. I’ll write for a couple of hours, then throw some clothes and a fresh can of Whip-Ass in a bag, and leave at 1 P.M. this afternoon. From the lake over here in western Maine, Fenway’s a three-and-a-half-hour drive. The weather looks murky, but what the hell; the way the Sox have been playing, a rainout would be almost as good as a win. Besides, Michael Moore’s polemic Fahrenheit 9/11 opens tonight. If all else fails, I can go see that.

The Carlos Beltran trade finally goes down, a three-way deal that sends him to Houston and Astros closer Octavio Dotel to the A’s while the Royals pick up three prospects. It’s a bad deal for the Sox. Dotel’s a hard thrower, and the way things are going we may end up battling Oakland for the wild card.

Friday night and we’re in a local pizza place. I see the game all the way across the restaurant on a TV above the bar. I can barely make out the score: 2–0 Sox in the fifth, and Pedro’s working. I figure we’re in good shape, since he’s gotten past the first.

We’re talking, and when I look up again, Manny tags one to deep right. It looks out, but Bobby Abreu goes back hard and leaps at the wall, banging into it as the ball lands in his glove. He falls, hanging on to the wall with one arm—he’s got it. Manny just smiles and jogs back to the dugout. I notice it’s 3–0 now, so I’ve missed something. Trot walks, Millar singles. New pitcher. Tek singles, knocking in another run. It’s 4–0 and we’re paying the check.

Driving home, it’s still the sixth inning. Youk sends a double off the wall in left-center and takes third on the throw home. 6–0. Bellhorn legs out an infield hit, scoring Youk. New pitcher.

We get home and I click on NESN and it’s still the sixth. The new pitcher has walked Ortiz (who I discover led off the inning with a solo shot) to load the bases for Manny (who has a home run and an RBI double besides being robbed). Manny slices a liner to right that carries over Abreu into the corner. It takes a hop toward a fan at the wall who whiffs on it with both hands, knocking over his beer in the process. The ball caroms off the wall, still live, and all three runners come in. 10–0 Sox, and this one’s done, except for a brilliant diving catch by Manny in the seventh that has Pedro pointing with both hands, giving him props.

Pedro goes seven, giving up two hits. Curtis Leskanic throws his first inning as a Sock, and then in the bottom of the eighth the rains come, and the ump calls it.

In the Bronx, the same rain wiped out the Mets and Yanks, so we pick up a half game to make it five even.

It’s still wet when the gates open, so there’s no batting practice today. I hang around the first-base line and watch the grounds crew roll the tarp off. Mike Timlin signs, and Lenny DiNardo, and just before game time Nomar walks over. I’m in the first row, and the crush is enormous. Little boys scream and plead for an autograph—rock star Nomar. I’m a foot away from him, and think he’ll actually sign the pearl I’ve brought, but he only does a couple before scooting down about twenty feet.