Stephen King - Faithful

So it’s a double win, a TKO by Tek and a walk-off shot by Bill Mueller, enormously satisfying, and just.

And weird, the way Mendoza was suddenly unhittable (where in Pawtucket the Rochester Red Wings were wearing him out), and Mo so hittable—and wild, very much unlike him. The fight’s great for ratings too, and reinvigorates the rivalry, after being down nine and a half games. As a novelist, I’d say the plot’s too pat, designed for the big finish, like some of the NFL playoff games the last couple years. The more I think of it, the less I like it.

SO:Now I know what you’re doing out there: writing scripts for Fox Baseball, a division of the International Roller Derby Association. Today’s walk-off sure looked cooked—the same bad pitch to Trot and Bill Mill? Talk about a groovy situation. I swear when Trot stepped in he looked out at Rivera apologetically, as if this wasn’t his idea (Thou shalt not lie, Christopher Trotman Nixon). But we’re so desperate that we’ll gladly take it and be thankful. Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain.

ESPN’s showing the rubber game of the series, meaning it’s an 8:05 start. It also means ESPN’s built a temporary stage just past the third-base dugout, and the screen that’s usually at third has been moved to protect Peter Gammons, Harold Reynolds and John Kruk. When Miguel Cairo smokes a rope right at me in BP, I realize why the screen is there. The ball’s hit so on-the-nose that it knuckles, and I have to follow it all the way into my glove. I actually catch it in the pocket with a satisfying smack, getting a hand from the crowd and a few glances from the Yankees gathered at short, but it’s hit so hard that my index finger—which sticks through the Holdster opening and is cushioned by at least three layers of leather—is numb and then tingly.

“How’s it feel?” a guy behind me jokes.

“Good,” I say, and in a way it does. I’ve played a fair amount at goalie and at third base, and it’s the hardest shot I’ve ever stopped.

Here’s how big the game is: instead of the Hood blimp cruising low over us like Friday night, it’s the Met Life blimp. We’ve gone from regional to national.

I get a ball that A-Rod kicks taking grounders, then I’m off to Autograph Alley where Oil Can Boyd is signing, accompanied by a beefy, bleached-blond guy with a bright Hawaiian shirt and ten pounds of gold jewelry, like a wrestler’s manager. The Can is gaunt but stylish, fringes of gray in his close-cropped hair.

“Nineteen eighty-six,” I say as he’s signing my ball, “ALCS Game Six. You were here, I was here. Thanks, Dennis.”

The concourse is gridlocked, and I miss the Marine honor guard unfurling a massive American flag that covers the Monster, and then John Kerry throwing out the first pitch. (Kerry/Edwards campaign aides are handing out SOX FANS FOR KERRY signs throughout the park—a by-product of owner Tom Werner’s support of the Democrats.)

I reach my seat in time for Derek Lowe’s first pitch. Right from the beginning, the ump’s squeezing him. Lowe has Kenny Lofton struck out, but there’s no call. Lofton grounds a single to left that somehow makes it to the wall and becomes a double. Lofton takes third when Jeter—in a Zoolander-stupid move—bunts him over. Sheffield hits a fly to center that’s short enough for an interesting play at the plate, but Johnny waves both arms as if he doesn’t see it. Bellhorn’s going out, Kapler’s streaking in from right. Kapler dives, an instant too late. Lofton scores; Sheffield, jogging, ends up at first. A-Rod nubs one that Bill Mueller has no play on, then Lowe bounces one that just nicks Posada on the foot (Andrew tosses me the traitorous ball). Matsui hits a fly deep enough to get Sheffield home. Bernie Williams flies to Manny—a nice running catch in the corner—but it’s 2–0 Yanks, and Lowe is red-cheeked and unhappy.

Jose Contreras’s ERA at Fenway this year is over 20.00, and he shows us why. Johnny legs out an infield single, then moves to second when a pickoff throw gets past Tony Clark. Contreras quickly walks Bellhorn and Ortiz, bringing up Manny with bases loaded and no out. Manny rips a grounder to third, and Johnny’s off. A-Rod thinks he has a play at home, but he rushes the throw, yanking it to the infield side, and Posada has to lay out to get it, his foot coming off the plate. Johnny’s in there—but ump Hunter Wendelstedt punches him out.

What? I’m out of my seat and screaming at him, trying to keep my language clean so I don’t get kicked out. Trudy’s embarrassed but amused too. Our neighbor Mason laughs, shaking his head. “That’s the third horrible call that’s gone against us this series.”

“And two were for runs!”

Bases are still loaded for Nomar. He jumps all over a Contreras fastball and lines a bullet to Matsui in left, too short to score Bellhorn. Two down, and it looks like we’re going to blow another opportunity, but Millar, who’s been blazing lately, dumps one into center that Lofton can’t quite get to. They should have a play on Manny, but it never materializes, and the game’s tied.

Lowe has no problem with the bottom of their order (Bernie, Tony Clark and Enrique Wilson will go a combined 1 for 10), and in our half of the second, Contreras hits Mirabelli, gives up a smoked single to Kapler and then serves up a pretty Pesky Pole shot to Johnny, the ball rising into the night, then hitting the woven metal skirt of the pole and dropping straight down. We’re still celebrating when Bellhorn takes one out. It’s 6–2 and only the second inning.

Contreras picks up his second hit batsman of the inning when he throws behind Millar. The crowd is pissed and loud. After Friday night’s game, and how blatant the pitch was, I expect he’ll be heaved to keep order, but no, Wendelstedt just issues a warning to both clubs. So the Yanks get two free ones. When a pitch gets through Mirabelli and knocks Wendelstedt’s mask off, sending him to one knee, there’s a sense of frontier justice.

Torre decides to save the pen and let Contreras hang, and it works for the most part. The unstoppable Millar hits a Coke bottle shot in the fifth, and the two runs we tack on in the sixth are partly reliever Felix Heredia’s fault, and partly Matsui’s, when he gets fooled by a fly to left. Earlier in the series, he got caught too close to the wall and a ball hopped over his head; now he plays too far off it and David Ortiz’s slicing fly hits the padding about five feet off the ground, and a catchable ball becomes a run-scoring double. Millar singles Ortiz in for his fourth RBI. It’s 9–2, and the game’s turning into a party.

John Kerry’s sitting two sections over from us, right by the end of the Sox dugout, along with John Glenn, Joe Biden, Tom Brokaw, Tim Russert, and a gaggle of other Democratic National Convention celebrities. Between innings, the teenage guys sitting in front of us gesture to him with a ball they want signed. Kerry waves it on. The kid’s throw is short, hitting Katie Couric. Kerry signs it, and since I’m the only one with a glove, he throws it back to me. When the next half-inning’s over, I catch Kerry’s eye with the ball I snagged from Miguel Cairo and toss it to him—the right distance, but wide. I think it’s going to bounce onto the field, but Kerry reaches over the wall, stretches and makes a sweet one-handed grab. I point to him, surprised; he points back and nods. After he signs, his toss is perfect, head-high, and again we point at each other. Oil Can Boyd and John Kerry in one day!

In the top of the seventh Bellhorn pulls up on a grounder by Kenny Lofton. Lowe gets Jeter (“Zooooooooo-lan-derrrrr!”) and Sheffield (“Juice! Juice! Juice!”), but Lofton steals second and A-Rod walks. Lowe’s pitch count is around 120, so Francona goes to Timlin, and I go to the bathroom, figuring a six-run lead is safe. It’s quiet in the bathroom, too quiet, I think, and then there’s a cheer. Then nothing. When I get out of the stall, there are maybe five guys at the long line of urinals, and I know something’s wrong.