Stephen King - Faithful

We run inside just in time to see the replay. Arroyo hits A-Rod on the elbow with a pitch inside—nothing new: Arroyo’s second in the league in hit batsmen. A-Rod jaws at him right out of the box, though the pitch wasn’t up or behind him; in fact, it hit him on the elbow pad. Tek says something to A-Rod. A-Rod says, “Come on,” and Tek shoves him two-handed in the face, then ducks and grabs A-Rod around the upper thigh and lifts him, bulling him backwards. The whole room cheers and laughs. What kind of idiot challenges a guy in a mask and shin pads to a fight? Obviously he’s never played hockey.

The benches clear. It’s a harmless scrum except for Sturtze getting Gabe Kapler in a headlock from behind—a bad move when you’re on the opposing team’s side of the scrum. No idea how their starting pitcher ended up by our on-deck circle, but David Ortiz is nearby and won’t see his teammate treated this way. He grabs Sturtze and flings him to the ground. In the replay, as they fall, gravity gives Kapler some revenge as his knee lands in Sturtze’s crotch. Trot piles on, but by then things have settled, and they’re pulled apart.

Tek’s ejected, as is A-Rod, and Kapler. Sturtze has a bloody scratch near his ear, but stays in the game. In the dugout, Kapler’s pissed. “He grabbed me !” he shouts, demonstrating. (Later I discover that Kenny Lofton’s been tossed, though only he and the ump know what he did.)

The game’s on Fox, and the idiots in the booth say that maybe this will change New Yorkers’ minds about A-Rod’s lack of toughness. I keep looking for evidence in the replays (because they show it ten times), but all I see is Tek shoving him in the face and lifting him off the ground. They also say this is a case of the Red Sox’s frustrations boiling over, except A-Rod started it. They run a montage of Sox-Yanks brawls going back to Fisk slugging Munson after their collision at home. In every clip, the Sox are whipping their asses.

When order’s restored, the Sox come back over the next couple innings to take a 4–3 lead. Sturtze’s gone and Juan Padilla is on. In the fifth, there’s a terrible call on Johnny at second when Enrique Wilson drops a pop-up in short right and throws late to second for the force. Johnny, who’s always a gentleman, says, “No!” and he’s right. Francona comes out to argue, and no doubt he’s arguing about last night’s blown call at home too, and Timmons’s awful work behind the plate. Francona actually gets excited for once, swearing and spitting at the ump’s feet, and gets tossed.

He’s in the clubhouse to watch the Yanks come back in the sixth. Wilson slices a spinning Texas leaguer over third. Posada pokes a low wall-ball and is meat at second on a perfect throw by Manny, except Bellhorn sets up too far behind second (not expecting Posada to try it) and waves at the in-between hop. Matsui doubles to put them ahead. Arroyo battles for two outs, but Cairo hits a quail off the end of the bat that floats over Bellhorn, and it’s 6–4. Dave Wallace visits the mound. Bernie Williams singles. Brad Mills, as acting manager, pulls Arroyo for Leskanic. Curtis threw well last night. Today he can’t find the plate. He walks Jeter (0 for his last million and groveling for a walk) to load them, then walks Sheffield to bring in a run. He goes full on Wilson, who singles to right, scoring two more. 9–4. He walks Posada, and that’s it, he’s gone (0 IP, 1 H, 1 R, 3 BB), and Mystery Malaska’s on to face Matsui. On 3-2 Matsui takes a strike down the middle for the third out. Before this, I considered Matsui the most professional of the Yankees, but what is anyone doing taking a pitch on 3-2 with a five-run lead? That’s bush, and even in the bush leagues will earn you some lumps.

Nomar leads off the Sox sixth with a ripped single. When Padilla goes 2-0 on Trot, pitching coach Mel Stottlemyre goes to the mound to calm him down (and stall). Padilla’s way off the plate, as if he’s afraid of lefties, and walks Trot. On a 1-1 count to Millar, Torre interrupts the flow of the game by bringing in Quantrill. It’s the old Cuban slowdown, but even in the Pan-American games, where the umps let you do anything, I can’t remember two mound visits on consecutive batters in midcount. After a five-minute delay for warm-ups and commercials, Millar singles to load them. On 3-1 Bill Mueller has a fat pitch to hit but skies it to center for an unsatisfying sac fly. Bellhorn strokes a wall-ball double, and it’s 9–6. Johnny singles to left—9–7. Because Tek got ejected, Mirabelli’s batting second, and we don’t have a backup catcher, so we can’t pinch-hit Youkilis for him. Mirabelli Ks, and Torre brings in Felix Heredia, who walks Ortiz to load the bases for Manny. Stottlemyre visits the mound again (their fourth visit this half-inning). Heredia goes 3-2 on Manny, who’s hit like crap this series, then misses with a pitch a good foot up and out. 9–8, and Nomar’s up, but look, what’s this, it’s Joe Torre plodding out to the mound. Another five-minute delay while Scott Proctor of the Columbus Clippers warms. Home-plate ump Bruce Froemming, who’s built like Violet in Willy Wonka after she turns violet and the Oompah-Loompahs roll her away, makes it easy for Proctor, giving him a first strike call on a ball nowhere near the zone, and after all the waiting and screwing around, Nomar’s pissed and just swings at anything (hey Joe, the tactic worked!) and strikes out to end what has to be the longest inning I’ve ever seen. One hour and seven minutes, according to Fox’s clock.

While I think the Yankee/Cuban National Team stuff is crap, and definitely unsporting, it’s legal. But it’s also the home-plate ump’s responsibility to control the game, and in the rule book there’s a powerful clause that says the umpire can penalize any behavior that he independently deems “makes a mockery of the game.” The classic example is running the bases backwards. I would submit to the league office that the slowdown not only makes a mockery of the game, it makes for bad TV, since that’s the only thing the league office seems to care about. Steroids, what steroids? (In other sports, not only are players banned, but their teams’ victories are retroactively forfeited and their championships taken away, their records expunged. Just a warning, Sheff, in case we ever have a real commissioner again.)

Ruben Sierra (career, what career?) leads off the seventh with a Monster shot off Malaska to make it 10–8. The crowd in the humid room groans. I go out to the beach, where there’s a little kid in a Red Sox T-shirt with a Wiffle bat hitting stones into the ocean in the rain. Stone after stone: clack, clack, clack. Finally, some perspective. The game’s not about the slowdown, or the TV contract, or the groan, it’s about how fun it is to swing a bat and make contact. That clean ping.

Embree, who worked out of a jam in the seventh, is angry in the dugout because Mills pulled him for Mendoza. I’m horrified to see Mendoza myself, since he hasn’t thrown a clutch inning since last June, including his season-long stint in the minors. Somehow—physics won’t explain it—he does today, and not just one, but two of them.

We go to the ninth down 10–8, facing Mo, as always. He’s converted 23 straight save opportunities, the Yanks are 56-0 when leading, blah blah blah. With two strikes, Nomar doubles on a particularly flat cutter. Rivera goes 3-1 on Trot, who crushes the next pitch to right. “Get OUT!” we yell, rising from our chairs. Sheffield goes back sideways, then backwards, crablike, and hauls it in on the track. In any other park it’s a game-tying home run. Fenway giveth…Nomar moves over, and while we’re still talking about Rivera’s ineffectiveness, Millar bloops one to right, making it a one-run game. Mo’s not Mo. He’s missing high, missing wide, all over the place. He goes 3-1 on Bill Mueller, then gives him the same flat pitch he threw Trot, and Billy gets it. “That’s gone!” I say, and Sheffield knows it too, turning to show us his number as the ball lands in the glove of Sox bullpen catcher Dana LaVangie. The Sox jump up and down at home, slapping Billy on his shaved head (for some reason he pulls his helmet off just before he touches the plate—maybe he wants to really feel it to remember it forever). In the room, we’re all up and shouting, trading high fives and hugging. “I told you!” Steph says. “You did,” I admit, because he’s been behind Billy all the way, even when he hit into a rally-killing DP early on.