Change-up

by John Feinstein

  “You two really have a knack for walking into stories,” Kelleher said. “And this one doesn’t even involve getting yourselves into trouble, the way you guys usually do. You can write the profile on Doyle later and plug in details on how he pitches tonight for the late editions. Good job breaking this, though—no one else will have it, that’s for sure.”

  Stevie laughed weakly. “Better to be lucky than good,” he said.

  “Best to be both,” Kelleher said. “Tell me about the Doyle kids. Were they nice? Was David completely tongue-tied meeting Susan Carol?”

  Stevie shook his head. “Not exactly,” he said. “If anything, it was the other way around.”

  Kelleher looked up in surprise. “What? Susan Carol? I’ve never seen her tongue-tied.”

  “Me neither,” Stevie said. “David is really tall and really good-looking.”

  Kelleher waved a hand. “She’s been around good-looking guys before. I wouldn’t worry about it. You were jealous of Jamie Whitsitt, and there wasn’t anything to that, was there?”

  “No, there wasn’t,” Stevie said. “But Jamie was four years older than she was and not too bright. David is our age and smart. She went all Southern belle as soon as she laid eyes on him.”

  Kelleher shrugged. “Be honest, Stevie. Are there girls at school you think are good-looking? Of course there are. It doesn’t change the way you feel about Susan Carol. She was probably caught a little by surprise. It’s human nature, nothing more.”

  Stevie knew he was probably right. Still, he couldn’t shake the queasy feeling in his stomach.

  Once Stevie had filed his story, Kelleher suggested they take a walk through Faneuil Hall. “Where’s Tamara?” Stevie asked.

  “She went to tape something for TV,” he said. “ESPN keeps asking her to come on because they want to hire her. She knows it’s a really bad idea, but they’re throwing a lot of money around, and it doesn’t hurt to let the newspaper know they’re interested in her. And given what’s going on in the newspaper business, she has to give it some thought.”

  “I’m surprised they didn’t blackball her just for being married to you,” Stevie said.

  “Maybe they think I’d be less critical of them,” Kelleher answered, laughing.

  “I doubt that.”

  “Me too,” Kelleher replied. “Come on, let’s go.”

  Stevie tried to call Susan Carol, first in her room and then on her cell, to see if she wanted to go with them. There was no answer, which surprised him a little.

  “Maybe she turned her cell off to take a nap,” Kelleher said. “We’ll find her when we get back.”

  Given the coolness between them on the walk back, Stevie thought some time apart might not be a bad idea. So they headed out the door of the hotel for what Kelleher said was a short walk to Faneuil Hall.

  “That’s the great thing about Boston,” he said. “When the weather’s good, you can walk just about anyplace. It’s a major city but a small town—at least geographically.”

  While they walked, Kelleher explained some of the history of the place. The original Faneuil Hall had existed during the Revolutionary War. It was a thriving marketplace for years, which led the city to build the even bigger Quincy Market next door. It had all fallen into disrepair, but then the city came up with the idea to turn the area into a place with shops and restaurants, and now it was thriving again.

  “We’ll go to Regina’s for pizza,” Kelleher said. “It’s as good as any in the country. But first I want to show you Red.”

  “Red?”

  “You’ll see,” Kelleher said.

  They walked under an archway into what looked like a small town. There were cobblestone walkways and, on either side, long brick buildings that housed stores and restaurants. The smell of food drew Stevie toward an open doorway, but Kelleher headed straight down the cobblestones until he came to a bench.

  “Red,” he said.

  He was pointing at a statue of a man sitting on the bench with a cigar in his hands. The statue was life-size and looked almost real.

  “Red Auerbach,” Stevie said.

  “Very good, Stevie,” Kelleher said. “You pass today’s history test.”

  Stevie was reading the plaque next to the statue. It said that Arnold “Red” Auerbach had led the Boston Celtics to fifteen NBA titles as coach and general manager of the team.

  “Fifteen titles, that’s amazing,” Stevie said.

  “Actually, it was sixteen,” Kelleher said. “Look at the date on the plaque—1985. The Celtics won another one in 1986. Just before Red died, I was in town, and I called him from right here to tell him I was sitting next to his statue.

  “First thing he said to me was, ‘Did they fix that damn plaque yet to make it sixteen championships?’”

  “How did you know him?” Stevie asked.

  “Believe it or not, he lived in Washington,” Kelleher said. “He had a group of buddies that went to lunch every Tuesday, and I used to go. There were some basketball people, but there were also a couple of lawyers, a couple of Secret Service agents, some of Red’s doctors—a very eclectic group. Red knew everyone. Might have been the most fun I ever had.”

  “I guess the group broke up after he died,” Stevie said.

  “Actually, no,” Kelleher said. “We still get together every Tuesday. It’s not the same without Red, it can’t be. But we all know Red would have wanted it that way. At the end of lunch we open a fortune cookie for Red and read it to him.”

  “Sounds like you really miss him,” Stevie said.

  “Oh yeah,” Kelleher said. “You don’t get to meet too many guys who are truly larger than life. Red was one of them. He had this incredible feel for people—no matter what they did. He was always asking questions, trying to learn, to be smarter, even though he was really smart. And he was the most competitive person I ever met. He wanted to win at everything all the time.”

  He put his hand on top of Red’s head and held it there for a moment. “Come on, let’s go get some pizza,” he said.

  Stevie followed Kelleher down the cobblestoned walkway and into the most delicious-smelling building he had ever been in. There were places to get lobster and shrimp, crab cakes and chowder, hamburgers and hot dogs, Chinese food, ice cream, apple pie, fried dough, Italian sausages—just about any food Stevie could think of or imagine. Kelleher stopped in front of a place that said Pizzeria Regina. It didn’t look like anything special to Stevie, but he had learned to trust Kelleher on the subject of food.

  “Couple slices?” Kelleher asked. “Or should we just split a pie?”

  “I think a couple of slices will be plenty for me,” Stevie said.

  “We’ll see about that,” Kelleher said.

  He ordered four slices and a couple of Cokes. Balancing the pizza on paper plates, drinks in their other hands, they continued down the hallway.

  “There’s tables and chairs in the middle of the building,” Kelleher said. “If we’re lucky, we’ll find a place to sit.”

  The dining area had a vaulted ceiling and was gigantic, with tables and chairs in the middle, and tall tables around the edges where people could stand and eat.

  “Over there to the right,” Kelleher said, pointing. They began walking in that direction. Stevie was a step behind Kelleher when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a familiar figure seated at a small table.

  It was Susan Carol. He’d know that ponytail anywhere.

  And sitting across from her was David Doyle. He was leaning forward in his chair and appeared to be talking with great feeling. Stevie stopped dead in his tracks, staring. Fortunately, David Doyle was so intent on his conversation with Susan Carol that he didn’t see Stevie. Stevie was pretty convinced that he could burst into flames and David wouldn’t notice because his eyes were so completely locked in on Susan Carol.

  Kelleher had apparently reached the table, put his food down, and then noticed that Stevie wasn’t behind him. He walked back to where Stevie was standing.


  “Stevie,” he said. “What’s up? Something wrong?”

  Unable to find his voice, Stevie simply gestured with his Coke hand in the direction of the table where Susan Carol and David were sitting.

  Kelleher looked. “Oh, it’s Susan Carol,” he said. “Who’s that she’s with?”

  “David Doyle,” Stevie said through clenched teeth.

  For a split second Kelleher didn’t respond. Then, apparently, he got it. “Okay,” he said calmly. “Come with me and let’s sit down before he notices you shooting daggers at him.”

  Stevie went. He wanted to do two things: find out what the hell was going on at that table and eat his pizza. For the moment, he would have to settle for the pizza.

  Stevie sat so he could see Susan Carol and managed to eat his pizza without ever taking his eyes off the two of them. They were both leaning forward as they talked, and although Stevie couldn’t be sure, he was convinced they were holding hands.

  “Let’s not overreact here,” Kelleher counseled. “There may be a perfectly simple explanation.”

  “Really?” Stevie said. “They just met this morning and last saw each other all of two hours ago. What could possibly have happened to get them together here now, looking as if someone’s life was at stake.”

  Kelleher semi-laughed. “Given your history, isn’t it at least a possibility that someone’s life is at stake?” he said.

  Stevie had to concede Kelleher had a point. But he didn’t think it was likely. He had seen the way the two of them had looked at one another back at the Ritz.

  “I’m going over there,” he said, starting to stand up.

  “Oh, no you’re not,” Kelleher said, pulling him back down. “You’re going to sit here and eat your pizza and wait until later to see if Susan Carol tells you what happened on her own. If she doesn’t, then—and only then—do you consider asking her about it.”

  “But look at her!” Stevie said, exasperated.

  Kelleher glanced over his shoulder. Stevie might have told him not to look, except that there was no way either one of them was going to notice.

  “I will grant you,” Kelleher said, “that it doesn’t look great. But you have to admit that there have been many times when things were not what they appeared to be.”

  “Yeah, but … look at how he’s looking at her.”

  Kelleher smiled. “I know how you feel,” he said. “But you don’t know how she’s looking at him. Or why. So you’ve got to be patient.”

  He pointed at Stevie’s empty plate. Stevie had completely devoured the two slices of pizza without even noticing.

  “You want more?” Kelleher said.

  “Absolutely,” Stevie said, starved, hurt, and angry all at once.

  “Come on,” Kelleher said. “We’ll get some more and then go eat outside.”

  Stevie started to argue, then stopped. This wasn’t the time for a confrontation. And as much as he wanted to know what was going on, he was fairly convinced that he wouldn’t like the answer.

  7: UNANSWERED QUESTIONS

  KELLEHER WAS SMART ENOUGH not to try to engage Stevie in further conversation. They walked outside with their fresh pizza slices, while happy throngs of Bostonians enjoyed the brisk October sunshine all around them.

  “Just try not to jump to any conclusions until Susan Carol has a chance to explain what was going on,” Kelleher said as they rode the escalator back up to the hotel lobby. “I know that’s hard, but there’s no sense making yourself crazy over something that may turn out to be nothing.”

  Stevie nodded. “I know you’re right,” he said. “But I’ve already jumped to about a million conclusions—none of them very appealing—and it’s pretty hard to unjump.”

  Kelleher put his arm around Stevie. “Let’s just wait and see what we see,” he said.

  Stevie went back to his room and turned on the TV. He sat watching some talking heads analyzing game one for the fiftieth time and then noticed a crawl on the bottom of the screen that said, “A published report claims that Norbert Doyle will start game two of the World Series tonight in place of Ross Detwiler. ESPN’s Peter Gammons reports that Nationals manager Manny Acta is refusing comment.”

  Stevie couldn’t help but laugh. ESPN couldn’t confirm the story, so they had found a way to report it and make it sound shaky all at once.

  His phone rang.

  “You watching ESPN?” It was Kelleher.

  “Yeah.”

  “Typical of them. I love it.”

  He hung up. Stevie tried to focus on what was being said on the screen but couldn’t. His mind kept flashing back to Faneuil Hall and the sight of David Doyle and Susan Carol talking. There had to be an explanation, right? But what in the world could it be? Several times he reached for the phone to call her but stopped himself. He would play it Kelleher’s way and see if she mentioned it without his asking.

  The droning voices made him drowsy. He figured he would rest his eyes for five minutes. The next thing he knew, the phone was ringing. He looked at the clock and saw it was 3:30. Uh-oh, he was late.

  “Stevie, where are you?” a voice said when he picked up. It was Susan Carol.

  For a moment he forgot everything. “Sorry,” he said. “Fell asleep. Give me a couple minutes.”

  “Hurry. Bobby and Tamara are here, and they’re ready to go.”

  Stevie splashed some water on his face to wake up. Then he grabbed his jacket and his computer bag and raced to the door. He was in the jam-packed lobby five minutes after Susan Carol’s call.

  “Catching up on your beauty rest?” Susan Carol said, giving him the Smile when he walked up to them.

  “I guess I don’t have the energy some people have,” Stevie said, causing Kelleher to give him a look.

  Stevie saw Tim McCarver, the longtime Fox TV analyst, crossing the lobby and heading in their direction. Stevie liked McCarver’s work, and he had a soft spot for him, since he had finished his playing career with the Phillies.

  Every time he saw him, Stevie was reminded of a story his dad had told him. Near the end of McCarver’s playing days, his main job had been to catch Steve Carlton, the temperamental Hall of Fame pitcher. Carlton was so adamant about McCarver catching him that McCarver once said, “I think when Steve and I die, we’re going to be buried sixty feet, six inches apart”—that being the distance between the mound and home plate.

  McCarver shook hands with Kelleher and Tamara and said, “Don’t think me rude, but I’m actually hoping you’ll introduce me to young Mr. Thomas here.”

  Kelleher laughed. “Gee, I wonder why you want to talk to him, Tim. Steve Thomas, this is Tim McCarver.”

  McCarver shook hands with Stevie, then introduced himself to Susan Carol, impressing Stevie when he said, “I’m Tim McCarver, nice to meet you.” Stevie had noticed that a lot of celebrities either didn’t even speak to people they didn’t “need” at that moment or blew through any introduction that was made.

  McCarver turned to Stevie. “Bobby’s right, of course. I need your help,” he said. “We like to tape our opening when we get to the ballpark. We’ve been trying to get the Nationals to confirm your story about Doyle pitching, but they’re playing it very close to the vest. Can you just give me an idea of how well-sourced you are on this?”

  Stevie looked to Kelleher. He didn’t think there was any reason not to tell McCarver why the story was fail-safe, but he wasn’t certain.

  “Put it this way, Tim,” Kelleher said. “He didn’t get the story secondhand.”

  McCarver smiled. “Excellent. That’s all I need.” He put his hand out to Stevie again. “Congratulations on breaking the story.”

  A voice behind them said, “Tim, the car’s downstairs.”

  Stevie saw Ken Rosenthal, Fox’s sideline reporter, standing behind McCarver.

  When Kelleher saw Rosenthal, he grinned and said, “Hey, Kenny, we never see you anymore now that you’ve gone TV.”

  Rosenthal was short and had brown hair an
d a quick smile. Stevie always liked watching him on TV because he clearly knew what he was talking about but never pontificated.

  “Yeah, I’ve come a long way, Bobby,” Rosenthal said, laughing. “I used to be your caddy, now I’m McCarver’s caddy. But I do get better seats now.”

  “Too true, Junior,” Kelleher said.

  McCarver thanked Stevie again, and he and Rosenthal waved goodbye as they headed for the escalator.

  “Please tell me you think they’re good guys,” Susan Carol said. “I really do like their telecasts.”

  “They’re good guys,” Kelleher said. “Junior still thinks like a reporter and is not in love with himself.”

  “Junior?” Stevie and Susan Carol said together.

  Kelleher and Mearns both laughed. “Believe it or not,” Mearns said, “when Kenny was a young reporter with the Baltimore Sun, Jose Canseco thought he looked like Cal Ripken, so he started calling him by Cal’s nickname.”

  “There are probably only about five of us who still remember that,” Kelleher added. “Come on, let’s go.”

  They took a cab to the ballpark, and since they already had their credentials, they were inside and on the field just as the Red Sox started batting practice. Since the managers’ pregame press conferences didn’t begin until 5:30, everyone stood around in groups chatting while David Ortiz, Jason Bay, and J.D. Drew crushed long home runs into the seats and over the Green Monster. Stevie had half expected people to come up and ask him about the story, but no one did.

  “The lineup is posted in the dugout,” Mearns reported. “Doyle’s the starting pitcher. I guess ESPN can confirm the story now.”

  “I wonder if they can call the lineup card a source?” Stevie asked.

  Mearns went off to do an interview with one of the local Boston TV stations. Kelleher was called away by a couple of writers Stevie didn’t recognize. That left him standing alone with Susan Carol a few feet from the Nationals dugout.

  “So what’d you do this afternoon?” Stevie asked, trying to sound casual. “Bobby and I tried to call you for lunch, but you didn’t answer.”

  “Oh, I just went for a walk,” she said. “I didn’t swim this morning, so I wanted to get some exercise.”