Stephen King - Faithful

Saturday night, and by the time we switch over from the hilariously stiff They Are Among Us on the Sci-Fi channel, the resurrected El Duque and the Yanks have beaten Detroit and Wake’s given up three runs in the first. Colon walks the bases loaded in the second, but Johnny flies out. Vladimir Guerrero, looking like an MVP candidate, bombs a high knuckler onto the rocks, and it’s 4–0. Not only is Manny not playing, Bill Mueller is nowhere to be seen, and because it’s Wake throwing, Mirabelli’s catching, meaning (with the shift of Bellhorn to third) we’ve added Kapler, Pokey and Doug to a lineup already struggling to score runs.

A scary play in the fourth, when hefty Jose Molina lines one at Wake’s head. He ducks, and it nails him in the back, just above the 9 in 49, and ricochets—still playable—high into the air. Nomar snares it coming across the bag for a pop out, but Tim’s still down. On the replay it catches him solidly, and I think he’s got to leave the game, but he takes some warm-up tosses and stays in. On his first pitch, Adam Kennedy cranks a flat knuckler into the right-field seats.

In the fifth, Johnny gets one back with a line-drive homer down the short right-field line, but that’s it. New guy Joe Nelson relieves. #57, he features “The Vulcan,” a breaking ball gripped between his middle and ring fingers so his hand is split like Spock’s live-long-and-prosper sign. In the sixth, Nelson loads them, and Francona, considering this one finished, calls on Jimmy Anderson, who throws two straight wild pitches, then gives up a single to Garret Anderson. It’s 8–1 and 12:30, and I’m done.

The final last night was 8–3. All I missed was a pair of solo shots by Johnny and Big Papi. Today’s a 1:05 Pacific time start, meaning I won’t have to stay up till one-thirty. And Mr. Schill’s on the hill, though I must say I’m getting a little grumpy with the club only winning his and Pedro’s starts (they’re a combined 13-1 since mid-May). Wake and Lowe have been shaky, sure, but we’ve also given up 40 unearned runs behind them.

Manny’s sitting again, with Kapler filling in in left, McCarty at first and Bellhorn at second. Good news, though: the Tigers have beaten the Yanks, so we can get back to seven with a win.

As the game gets under way, the TV presents us with a mystery. Anaheim’s a fine team, we’re a marquee club with a large following, and it’s a beautiful Sunday afternoon, yet the outfield sections are half-filled and there are empty rows all around the ballpark. Do the Angels fans deserve this team (this day, this game)?

In the first, David Ortiz powers one off the wall in left-center. Mike Scioscia’s resting everyday left fielder Jose Guillen, and veteran Tim Salmon can’t get over quick enough to back up the carom, giving David a gift triple. Right-hander John Lackey, a number four starter at best, strikes out the side, and comes back in the second to strike out two more.

Schilling’s cruising too, and then in the third he hangs a curve to hefty Bengie Molina, who puts it into the left-field stands for a 1–0 lead. Lackey bears down, snapping off a curve that gets lefties like Tek and Trot and Bill Mueller; by the fifth he’s struck out a season-high 7.

Entering the sixth, both pitchers have given up two hits, but Schilling’s pitch count is rising. With one down, Johnny works a walk. Bellhorn follows with a single through the right side. Maybe Lackey’s tired, because his fastball to David Ortiz is knee-high and in, right where David likes them, and Big Papi golfs it over the fence in right.

With his next pitch, Lackey drills Nomar in the elbow. The ump warns both benches, and Scioscia hustles out to argue. It’s stupid, since the warning hurts us more than them. Now if Schilling retaliates, he gets tossed. The ump should wait till we even things up, then say, “Okay, boys, that’s enough.”

Lackey flags. He loads the bases and gets out of it only because McCarty hits a bullet to Figgins at third. For some reason Scioscia leaves him in, and Kapler greets him in the seventh with a leadoff homer on another knee-high, 90 mph fastball. Johnny doubles down the line, and, too late, Scioscia goes to Scot Shields. Ortiz singles Johnny in for his third hit and fourth RBI of the day, then scores when Nomar triples off the scoreboard in right.

With a 6–1 lead, Schilling goes after Guerrero in the seventh, blowing him away with a 94 mph fastball down the pipe. He strikes out the side, like Pedro signing a win. He’s up to 100 pitches, so I’m surprised when he comes out in the eighth. He Ks Salmon, then plunks Molina (who hit the home run earlier) right in the ass. Molina looks out at him with both hands open—what’s up? Schilling’s had great control all day, and there’s no doubt this one’s payback. With the warning in place, the ump should toss him, but, inexplicably, doesn’t. Scioscia storms out of the dugout and plants himself in front of the ump, one hand on his hip, the other jabbing the air as he unleashes a stream of profanity we can easily lip-read. The ump tosses him, and while it’s unfair—maybe because it’s so unfair—we laugh.

Timlin closes—poorly, opening the ninth by giving up back-to-back singles to Figgins and Garret Anderson and a run on a sac fly by Guerrero (about thirty feet short of the rocks), but finally gets out of it with a pair of ground balls, and we’re off to Seattle to face the terrible Mariners.

Manny Ramirez is day-to-day with sore hamstrings (any number of sportswriters seem to think he’s malingering, but let’s see some of those overweight juiceheads get out there and run around left field for a few days) and Tim Wakefield took a fearsome line drive in the back last night, but we split four with Anaheim in their house, and to me that’s a great escape. We may even have picked up a game on the Yankees, who continue to struggle—go figure—against the Tigers. Still, the Red Sox look maddeningly lackadaisical, a befogged team of grizzled male Alices in baseball Wonderland.

But Schilling was great again today. As my younger son would no doubt say, he’s so money he doesn’t know he’s money. Two more like him and never mind the World Series; the Red Sox would be ready for the Super Bowl.

Another 10:05 start, another sleepless night. The Yanks have already lost to Tampa Bay, and when Tek breaks a 1–1 tie with a three-run bomb off J. J. Putz in the eighth, it looks like we’ll be six back. Arroyo’s thrown brilliantly, striking out 12 (including 11 straight outs by strikeout at one point), and the only run Seattle scored was due to some typical sloppy fielding.

Because Schilling went so deep yesterday, the pen is rested. Embree and Timlin set up and combine to let in a cheapie, abetted by Bill Mueller winging a double-play ball past Bellhorn into right field, but Timlin gets a big strikeout with two in scoring position to end the inning.

Foulke comes in to close. With one down, he gives up a solo shot to Miguel Olivo.

“They sure don’t make it easy on us,” I tell Steph and my nephews. All the other adults have long since gone to bed.

Edgar Martinez is next. At forty-one, he can’t run, so all Foulke has to do is throw him three low changes and he’s meat. Instead, Foulke throws him an 88 mph fastball over the heart of the plate. Edgar’s been killing this pitch since he was fifteen, and doesn’t miss. Johnny and Kapler both leap at the wall in right-center, but it’s gone, the M’s have gone back-to-back, and the game’s tied.

“Unbelievable,” I say. The boys are angry and want Francona to take him out, but we don’t have anyone else. Embree, Timlin, Foulke—this is our A-team.