Stephen King - Faithful

Shaken, on the next batter Lowe steps off the back of the rubber with the wrong foot, balking. Mike Scioscia’s up and out of the dugout, pointing. It should bring in a run, but the ump doesn’t call it, and we sneak out of a jam.

In the top of the fifth, we get the run right back, but in the bottom of the inning, Lowe tires. With Darin Erstad on second, Molina singles to left. Millar has the ball in his glove before Erstad rounds third, and Erstad’s just coming off a leg injury, but Millar’s a first baseman, and his throw is weak and low, bouncing three times as Erstad slips past Tek. Embree’s been up for a while, and Lowe’s over 100 pitches, so he’s done. He pitched well enough for a quality start. If he has a real left fielder, the game’s still 1–1.

Embree should be well rested, but can’t muscle a fastball by Adam Kennedy, who singles. Little David Eckstein, who has no home runs, misses one by five feet, doubling off the wall in left-center, scoring Molina. Figgins singles to center, and soon it’s 6–1. It’s midnight, and I think about going to bed, but hang in, only to see Curtis Leskanic groove one to Erstad for a two-run shot. We’re down seven runs and dredging the bottom of the bullpen, while the Angels can always call on twin closers K-Rod and Troy Percival, so good night, nurse.

In bed I’m still pissed off. It’s a demoralizing loss, with little good to point to, and against a club that—if we’re really contenders—we need to beat. We’re now 0-3 against them, and we’re plainly a sub-.500 club on the road. We’re eight back. I try not to overreact. Part of it is that I’d been waiting so long to see them play, and they played badly. It’s just one game, and it’s a four-game set. Pedro’s going tomorrow. The season’s long. Breathe.

I must admit the second half of the season got off to an inauspicious start last night in Anaheim. The Red Sox, who rarely do well on the West Coast (at least during the regular season), put on a particularly vileshow against the Angels, losing 8–1. Derek Lowe, although victimized by poor defense behind him (not for the first time this year, either), did not exactly cover himself with glory, either. In other news, the Sox sent down the on-base machine known as the Greek God of Walks in favor of a middle reliever whose last name is Martinez. Any resemblance to the Sox starter of the same name simply does not exist.

This could be a long road trip.

SK:And here’s how we start the second half: by losing to the Angels (big) and sending on-base machine Kevin Youkilis back to triple-A to make room for a mediocre pitcher. The conventional wisdom once more clamps down. You build an expensive multimillion-dollar racing machine and give it to a clodhopping middle manager with a cheek full o’ chaw. This is dopey-ball, not moneyball.

Disgusted in Maine,

Steve

SO:I feared the vengeance of the disappointed fiend.—Franconastein

Now the papers have Nomar going to the Cubs for prospects we then ship to Arizona for Randy Jo. Seeing as we’re eight games out, all this talk seems frivolous and off-target. We just need to play better. Now.

But the All-Star break is a good time to panic. Houston, right at .500 despite signing Clemens, Pettitte, Jeff Kent and Carlos Beltran, fires ex-Sox skipper Jimy Williams. Seattle, dead last in the West, continues its fire sale of high-priced veterans, tagging John Olerud, one of the best hitters of the era, for reassignment—meaning, essentially, they’re cutting him, hoping a contender like the Sox will want his stick (and Gold Glove at first) and pick up his salary.

Tonight’s another 10:05 start, and despite my history, I decide to stay up and watch this one to the end. The Yanks have already lost to Detroit, Mike Maroth one-hitting them, so we have a chance to make up a game. Manny’s not starting, and—one day too late—Francona’s figured out the right lineup: Trot in right, Kapler in left, Ortiz D’Hing, Millar at first, Pokey at second. It’s the same lineup Trudy proposed last night before quitting on the game. “How much is he getting paid?” she asks.

Kelvim Escobar’s throwing 95, Pedro 94. Home-plate ump Matt Hollowell is squeezing both of them, and Nomar takes advantage of it, leading off the second with a first-pitch homer to left-center when Escobar tries to get ahead with a fastball down the pipe. Here’s how much Hollowell’s squeezing them: in the bottom of the inning, Pedro issues back-to-back walks to their number six and seven hitters.

With the tight strike zone, both pitchers’ counts are rising. In the bottom of the fourth, Pedro has Guillen 0-2 with two down and decides to challenge him. Guillen catches up to the fastball and sends it to deepest center. Johnny goes back to the wall and leaps. Jerry thinks he has the ball when he comes down, but Johnny takes off his glove and flips it to show it’s empty.

Pedro looks tough, despite the umpiring. In one stretch through the middle innings, he strikes out six of his last seven batters (in one cruel at-bat, he throws five straight changes to Jeff DaVanon, then gets him on a 3-2 fastball down Broadway), but with two down in the sixth he walks Guillen, who steals second (that’s smallball, running with two out and a decent hitter at the plate) so Erstad’s single brings him in. It’s a one-run game and Pedro’s thrown 115 pitches. This one’s down to the pen.

In the top of the seventh, Scot Shields gets a gift third-strike call against David Ortiz on a pitch up and in that’s been a ball all night. Ortiz turns on Hollowell—he’s not the first to have words with him—and by the time Francona can run out and get between them, Hollowell’s tossed him. Ortiz wants a piece of him, and Sveum, bench coach Brad Mills and Papa Jack have to help Francona restrain him. He’s still mad when they bull him over to the dugout. He yanks two of his bats out of the rack and flings them in the direction of home plate. They nearly hit two other umps standing on the first-base line. It’s a dumb move—he’ll probably end up getting suspended, and we need his bat. At the same time, Jerry and Sean agree that Hollowell’s been so bad that it was just a matter of who was going to blow up on him.

Curtis Leskanic gets two quick outs in the seventh on two hard-hit balls, then gives up a single to Eckstein before being pulled for Embree. Like last night, Embree gives up a hit to the first guy he sees. It’s first and third for Garret Anderson, and I’m having flashbacks. He’s 1 for 10 lifetime against Embree, but that doesn’t comfort me. He grounds to the hole between first and second, a tough play for a mortal second baseman—an adventure for a Todd Walker—but Pokey makes it look routine, and once again I’m glad we have him. He could go 0 for 200 and I’d still want him out there.

It’s a four-game series, and Scioscia wants two innings out of Shields. Shields has his fastball popping, but for some reason tries a curve on 3-2 to Kapler. It hangs belt-high, and Gabe puts it into the third row in left for his second of the season, and we’ve got some breathing room.

Timlin sets up, with McCarty at first, and gets a brilliant play from Pokey on a chopper, snagging a short-hop a foot from the bag at second and gunning Guillen. Foulke’s the recipient of a tumbling shoestring grab by Kapler on his way to a one-two-three ninth. We win, and look good doing it. I’m surprised to see it’s 1:17: it’s been a tight game all night, well played if poorly umpired, definitely worth staying up for. The Angels are a good club; it took everything we had to win this one, and that’s satisfying. Let’s come back and play this way tomorrow.