Stephen King - Faithful

We make it to Steve’s seats in time for the anthem, which is live and not Memorex (as it has been in the past), the proof being the guest Irish tenor botching the words—“the last twilight’s glea-ming,” “the rockets’ red glares.” Nice job, Dermot.

As the game starts, again I have this sense of letdown. It’s Friday night, a packed house, Schilling on the mound against the Yanks, but we’ve played so poorly lately that it’s sapped the drama out of the matchup. We still chant “ BAL -CO” when Sheffield steps in, but halfheartedly.

When he takes Schilling out, hooking a Monster shot, all of that changes. Maybe it’s a sense of fair play, honest outrage at Sheffield getting away with his steroid use, or maybe it’s just hurt, but for the rest of the game, whenever Sheffield or Giambi come up, we greet them with “LIFE-TIME BAN, LIFE-TIME BAN” and “Mar-i-on Jo-ones! Marrrr-i-ooonnn!”

Lieber’s hittable, and in the second Trot doubles in Nomar, then Bill Mueller launches one into the bullpen, and we’re up 3–1. Millar tacks on a solo shot in the fourth, and with Schilling only up to 54 pitches, we’re looking good.

In the fifth, Mr. Schill gives up a leadoff single to Posada, then another to Matsui. Enrique Wilson flies one to left that looks like trouble, but it quails and Manny hauls it in on the track. Kenny Lofton follows with a ripped single to right. It should score the runner, except the runner’s Posada. Trot fires a one-hopper to Tek. Posada beats the throw, but Tek’s got the plate blocked. We can hear the plastic clack as Posada knocks into his shin guards. Tek spins and tags Posada’s shoulder, and he’s out.

No, he’s safe—ump Tim Timmons is calling him safe. Tek looks down at the plate openmouthed with shock. Schilling races from his backup position, pointing. Francona trots over from the dugout. The crowd’s been booing the whole time, but the argument’s quick and civil, Timmons laughing, as if there’s no way he could be wrong.

Our neighbor Mason later sees the replay upstairs. “He was out,” he says, “but it was a tough call.”

“Yeah,” I concede, “you’d have to be a professional umpire to make it.”

The run throws Schilling off, and he loads them before overpowering Jeter (who looks lost at the plate) and getting a force on Sheffield.

In the sixth, A-Rod takes Schilling to 3-2 and then fouls off a few fastballs before singling up the middle. Giambi goes to 3-2 and fouls a few over the second deck, then walks on a curveball that stays up—terrible pitch selection. Posada goes 3-2, fouls off a couple, then singles through the right side. Bases loaded, nobody out, and Schill’s pitch count is in the high 80s. He works deliberately to Matsui and gets a hard hopper to Millar at first. It should be a double play, but Millar’s throw to Nomar is high and off the bag to the infield side, and Schilling doesn’t get over to first fast enough. Nomar holds the ball rather than risk throwing it away. 4–3 Sox, runners at the corners.

Formerly washed-up Ruben Sierra pinch-hits for Enrique Wilson. Schilling has him 0-2 quickly, and Sierra has to fend off a good inside pitch with a protective swing. It’s a nubber down first, a swinging bunt. Millar fields it on the run. It looks like he’s got a play right in front of him at home on Giambi, but he glances back at first—Schilling’s assumed he’ll go home and hasn’t covered—and has to eat the ball. The Faithful boo.

When Lofton sneaks a soft double past Millar that McCarty would have stopped, we boo harder.

That’s it for Schilling, a frustrating end to a promising start. Usually our defense backs him up better than this, but if he can’t get a fastball past the “intestinal parasite”–weakened Giambi, then he didn’t have it anyway.

Timlin comes on, and washed-up Bernie Williams rips a double into the right-field corner, scoring two. 7–4 Yankees, and more booing, curses, then a disappointed (disapproving) silence.

When Millar comes up in our sixth, the crowd boos him lustily. “He hit a home run his last at-bat,” Steph points out. You can see Millar’s pissed off in the on-deck circle, focused, his teeth clenched. He rocks a Paul Quantrill fastball onto the Monster for his second solo shot, and when he crosses the plate, though the kids in the front row do the we’re-not-worthy salaam, his expression hasn’t changed.

In the seventh, Johnny singles, then scores on Tek’s double to left-center when Matsui boots the ball. Ortiz walks, and we’ve got first and second, nobody out, and Manny up. So far Manny’s 0 for 3 with 2 Ks, but we rise and chant his name, expecting deliverance. He grounds into an easy 6-4-3 DP, and the crowd mutters. Formerly washed-up Tom Gordon then hits Nomar in the shoulder, but Trot flies to center.

Curtis Leskanic comes on in the eighth, causing some consternation, and throws a one-two-three inning. Then Millar (cheered now) leads off with a blast onto the Monster to tie the game, his third homer of the night, and the place is louder than it’s been since the playoffs. We’re watching a great game, fuck the Yankees, fuck the standings. We stand and cheer through half of Bill Mueller’s at-bat, but Millar—justifiably—doesn’t come out for a curtain call.

Billy singles, and since he’d be the go-ahead run, Kapler pinch-runs for him. With nobody out Bellhorn needs to bunt him over. Is there anyone on the bench who can bunt better? No, not with Ricky already done and Pokey on the DL. Bellhorn fouls off two, then hits a weak grounder and has to hustle to avoid being doubled up.

“Simple fundamental baseball,” I say.

“ Little League baseball,” Mason says.

Johnny doubles. Instead of Kapler scoring, Bellhorn is held at third. We still have two shots at getting him in, but Tek—batting second for some crazy reason—chases a slider from Gordon in the dirt on 3-2, as does Ortiz, and we go to the ninth tied at 7.

Foulke’s in to hold it. After several questionable ball calls by Timmons (and no argument at all by Francona), Sheffield arcs one toward the Monster that looks gone. A couple fans in the front row reach down, and it hits ten feet from the top for a double. A-Rod singles him in—it’s that simple, a poor pitch by Foulke, a good swing by the Mariner shortstop—I mean the Texas shortstop…you know what I mean.

It’s 8–7 for Mariano Rivera in the ninth. Timmons’s blown call at home has been big all game, but it’s massive now. Mo has no problem getting Manny, Nomar and Trot, leaving Kevin Millar in the on-deck circle. As he stalks back to the dugout with his bat, I call, “Great game, Kev,” but his face is still clenched and he ignores me.

We’re nine and a half back and behind the White Sox in the wild card. That’s not drama, that’s desperation.

Together the Sox and Yanks have spent over 300 million dollars on their rosters. Is Bronson Arroyo versus Tanyon Sturtze really the best they can do?

Today’s the family picnic, and it’s raining at the beach, so all of Trudy’s aunts and uncles and cousins and nieces and nephews are crammed into the one main room of the cottage to watch the game. They’re lifelong New Englanders from Woonsocket and Westerly, and watching the Sox is like watching home movies—it gives them a chance to remember how Uncle Vernon rooted (optimistic all the way to the last out) or Trudy’s grandfather Leonard (watching TV with the sound down because he hated the announcers, a transistor radio pressed to his ear, and he would never go to the games).

We watch Arroyo get behind hitters, and get behind two-zip. I go out to shoot some hoops, and as I’m dribbling around, a shout comes up from the house next door: “Fight! Fight!” My nephew Sam comes tearing out. “Uncle Stew, there’s a bench-clearing brawl!”