by Jane Heller
Speaking of tomatoes, I am starving. All I have had today is plane wine. As soon as the rain lets up, we have dinner at the Blue Point Grille in the Warehouse District, a section that has been renovated and now boasts the best nightspots in downtown Cleveland. The restaurant is having a special on lobster tonight, and Michael orders it. I can’t believe it. Lobster gives him a bellyache like almost no other food, and yet here he is, dipping a claw into melted butter. I dread how bad he will feel later, but the smile on his face right now is a beautiful thing.
On Friday morning George King calls to cancel lunch.
“There’s a lot of stuff going on with the Yankees,” he says.
“Like what?”
“The whole A-Rod steroids issue.”
What issue? Chipper Jones made a harmless remark after a game against the Mets the other day. He said that anybody who approaches Bonds’s numbers will be asked the steroids question, including A-Rod. He never accused anybody of anything.
“I have a conference call with my editor around noon,” says George. “Let’s try again for tomorrow, same place.”
I try to think of another way into the Yankees and come up with Suzyn Waldman, who has been covering the team for over 20 years—from WFAN to WCBS, where she is now John Sterling’s color commentator. She has been a pioneer for women in the field of sports broadcasting. She will get how badly I need information about the Yanks.
I leave a message on John’s cell, asking if he will put in a good word with Suzyn. And then I call Mike, the broker in Toronto, to buy tickets for the Boston series at Yankee Stadium. He tells me he can get me some up-up-up-there Tier seats—for a steep price. “It’s a big series, eh?”
Michael and I ask the concierge how to get to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, and he gives us a map. We also ask where we can find the nearest drugstore so Michael can buy Pepcid for his post-lobster-binge heartburn, and he points us in the direction of a CVS/pharmacy. While Michael is shopping, I notice the magnificent Roman Catholic cathedral across the street and hurry over. Inside the church, which was built in the 1940s and smells like incense and flowers, I dip my fingers in holy water and take a seat. I bow my head.
“Dear God. Thank you for sparing my house from the wildfire, for keeping all my flights from crashing, and for putting me back in touch with family and old friends. Please let Michael make it through the trip without an emergency-room visit. Please let the Yankees get into the play-offs in spite of their miserable start. Please let all those judgmental New York Times readers come to realize what a true fan I really am.”
I pause, trying to be sure I am not leaving anything out.
“And please grant me an interview with a Yankee, so my publisher won’t stop payment on my advance. Amen.”
Michael and I spend the afternoon at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. Even in the “Hall” there are Yankee fans. A twentysomething woman in a Jeter jersey tells me she is going to the game tonight. I am about to ask her what makes Jeter her favorite player when a fat guy in an Indians T-shirt puts his arm around her. She introduces him as her husband. As they walk away, I wonder if I could be married to a man who roots for a team other than the Yankees and decide that I could not. My ex-husband was a Mets fan, and, although I sat through a game at Shea and tried to look riveted, I was not meant for Shea or, I later realized, him.
Back at the Marriott, John Sterling returns my call about Suzyn Waldman. He tells me I should call her in her room at the Ritz-Carlton and gives me the number.
“Or you could just stop by the booth tonight and meet her,” he says. “We’re right in the press box.”
“I’m not allowed in the press box.”
“I forgot. It’s not fair, but I don’t know what I can do about it.”
I call the Ritz and leave Suzyn a long message.
I lengthen my list of beat writers to contact. Tyler Kepner covers the Yankees for the Times, so I e-mail him.
At 6:30 Michael and I are off to the Jake. It is a breezy, brisk night—the heat and humidity having cleared out—and the 10-minute walk from the Marriott is a pleasant one.
Jacobs Field, which was built in the ’90s, according to our program guide, is a pretty park. It has good sight lines and is well maintained—a contemporary stadium with an old-fashioned feel. And the vendors and ushers and security people are so polite that I think it must be true what they say about Midwest-erners: They are friendly.
Our seats in the bleachers are on benches and, remarkably, nobody invades your personal space by squeezing onto your lap. And although we are at least 350 feet away from home plate, we have a decent view of the field. What is odd is that the Indians have not been able to draw big numbers this season; even with the Yankees in town, the Jake is not filled to capacity.
Hughes is pitching against Fausto Carmona. Both teams are in the wild-card hunt,so there is excitement in the air—and noise. An Indians fan sits in the top row of the bleachers and bangs on a drum to rally his team. He is about my age—old enough to know better—and I keep turning around to glare at him. Also in the house is LeBron James, the star of the Cleveland Cavaliers. The Indians fans cheer wildly when he is shown on the scoreboard until they realize he is wearing a Yankees cap.
A-Rod goes deep in the top of the second to put us in front. Hughes pitches six very solid innings,and it is 4–1 when Joba Chamberlain takes over in the bottom of the seventh. The Tribe fans sitting behind me gasp when Joba’s fastball hits 99 mph on the radar gun.
“Where did this guy come from?” says a college jock type.
I spin around. “Nebraska. He’s Native American—from the Winnebago tribe. His father had polio but raised him to play baseball. He hardly spent any time in the minors; that’s how good he is. And in case you’re wondering about his name, his niece called him Joba because she couldn’t pronounce his real name, which is Justin.”
He stares at me for a second, then thanks me. He is impressed that I am such a fount of information.
Just when I am thinking how friendly Midwesterners are, the Yankees score another couple of runs and a “Yankees suck” chant breaks out.
Joba is back for the eighth and strikes out all three Indians he faces. Mo pitches the ninth and gets three up, three down. The Yankees win six of their last seven games and are tied with Seattle for the wild-card lead.
As we file out of the bleachers, I ask the drummer, “What’s up with the drum?”
“I’ve been bringing it to the games for 34 years,” he says. “Win or lose, I never miss a chance to root for my team.”
“You have to admire his loyalty,” Michael says on our walk back to the hotel.
“If not his musical ability,” I say, rubbing my throbbing temples.
On Saturday I wake up with a Yankee hangover from the dream I had last night—my first Yankee one of the trip. It is about A-Rod. He is living in the apartment next door. We are friends. He comes over to ask which set of dishes he should use when he entertains his girlfriend for dinner that night. (This Dream A-Rod is single.)I have a look at his dishes, and together we decide on a white pattern with a cobalt blue border. I ask if he will introduces special lady, and he says, “Stop by at 7:05.”
“His girlfriend in the dream looked like Jennifer Lopez,” I tell Michael. “Isn’t that weird?”
“The fact that you’re dreaming about A-Rod is weird,” he says.
George King calls this morning to cancel lunch again today. He says he has to talk to Harlan Chamberlain, Joba’s father, plus he has to chase down the rumor that Igawa is being traded to the Padres.
“Ordinarily I could do it tomorrow after the day game,” he says, “but I’m flying out on the 6:45 into Newark.”
“Me, too,” I say.
We agree to meet at the Cleveland airport at the Continental gate and do the interview there.
I e-mail Mark Feinsand, who covers the Yankees for the Daily News, and Sweeny Murti, WFAN’s beat reporter, and ask if they would let me interview them for the b
ook. And then I try Suzyn Waldman again at the Ritz-Carlton. This time she answers.
“Is this something we can just do over the phone now?” she says in a voice that is almost as familiar to me as John’s. There is no mistaking the Boston in it, since she was born and raised there.
“I’d rather do it in person,” I say. “I would only need an hour or so.”
“John mentioned that you want to discuss the Yankees from a female perspective. Frankly, I’m sick of that subject. The words alone make me cringe. I’ve been covering the team for a long time and have gotten way past the gender thing.”
Yikes. “The book will be from the female perspective, but I’d ask you the same questions I’ll ask Tyler Kepner and Peter Abraham.”
“Oh.” There is a thawing. “Why don’t we get together in Detroit next weekend? We can have a drink after the Sunday-afternoon game. There’s a nice bar at the Townsend.”
“Perfect.” The Townsend is where the Yankees are staying.
“Who else have you talked to for the book?”
I mention that I was supposed to talk to George King yesterday, but he was working the A-Rod steroids story.
“Alex has never done steroids,” she says firmly.
“Jose Canseco claims to have something on him,” I say.
“It’s just about women, and so what? Wade Boggs had the whole Margo thing, and yet he had his best year on the field.”
“I can’t imagine A-Rod talking to the Post after they printed those pictures of him and the stripper.”
“He doesn’t talk to them anymore. He talks to me, though. Being a woman is a double-edged sword. It’s hard sometimes, but it also works to my advantage. The players know I’m not confrontational.”
She laments that coverage of baseball has changed since she started in the business—how writers, especially bloggers, are not accountable the way reporters used to be.
“Anyone can write whatever they want, and it doesn’t have to be true,” she says. “And once they write it, it takes on a life of its own.”
The conversation moves back to my book and the trip, and I explain that I have been buying tickets to every game. I mention that my friend got us great seats for the Sunday night game at Fenway next month but told me not to wear Yankee clothes.
“Your friend’s right,” Suzyn says. “When you’re in another ballpark, never wear the Yankees hat or T-shirt and call attention to yourself. Root with your heart. In Boston you could get hurt if you say the wrong thing.”
As soon as I am off the phone, I go back on the computer. There are responses from Tyler Kepner, Mark Feinsand, and Sweeny Murti. They all suggest getting together in Detroit next week. I am suddenly very popular.
Michael and I take a stroll and have lunch. It is another sunny, breezy day, and the fresh air feels good. As we wait for the elevator to go back up to our room at the Marriott, a burly man with a weathered face gets off.
“Excuse me,” I say. “Aren’t you Jim Fregosi?”
Michael is nonplussed, not only because Jim Fregosi has not played on a big league team or managed one in years, but also because he is not exactly a household name.
Fregosi himself can’t believe someone recognized him. “Yeah, it’s me,” he says in a gravelly voice.
“That was your most obscure call yet,” Michael commends me on our way up to the room.
For tonight’s game we are at the very top of the bleachers, right near the drummer. He starts banging away to get loose.
Mussina is on the hill against Paul Byrd. He gives up a run in the bottom of the first but quickly becomes the beneficiary of the Yankees offense. They send 10 batters to the plate in the top of the second, seven of them coming in to score. When A-Rod hits his 38th homer, Indians fans respond by chanting “Gay-Rod!” in one section and “A-Rod hires prostitutes!” in another. A drunken Yankee fan gives them all the finger and is escorted out of the stadium by two cops.
Matsui scores another run in the top of the seventh, and the friendly Midwestern bigots in the crowd chant “Go home, Chop Suey!” A-Rod hits his second homer of the night in the top of the eighth—a two-run shot.
The Yankees beat the Indians 11–2 and Mussina, who is doing his best imitation of the pitcher he used to be, gets his 100th win in pinstripes.
On Sunday, our last day in Cleveland, I regard myself in the mirror before applying makeup. I want to look decent for my interview with George King at the airport later. Either it is the lighting in the room or I have aged 20 years in 17 days. My face is hollow, haunted. I have been passing up the food at the ballparks. My mother was right: I need to eat and sleep more. And I need to find someone to blow-dry my hair. I did it myself and used too much spray, and it is as stiff as the cotton candy at the ballparks.
For today’s finale at the Jake, we are back in the bleachers but in row G, only six up. The pitching matchup is Pettitte versus Westbrook.
In the bottom of the seventh, with the Yankees ahead 4–0 and the Indians threatening, the two Andys—Pettitte and Phillips—make a spectacular pickoff play on Peralta at first that kills the rally. The Indians pull to 4–2 with Viz on the mound in the eighth, so Joe calls for Mo to get four quick outs—again.
With the 5–3 final, the Yankees sweep the Tribe for their eighth win in the last nine games to stay tied with Seattle for the wild card. The big news is they gain a game on the Red Sox and are now only four back. The image of Red Sox fans panicking thrills me.
Michael and I take a cab to the airport and hurry to the gate for our flight to Newark and my interview with George King. I e-mailed Larry Brooks earlier in the day to ask what George looks like.
“He’s a good-looking guy in his early fifties with blondish-grayish hair and a blondish-grayish beard and mustache,” Larry wrote.
There is no such person at the gate.
The attendant announces we are starting to board. I hang back for a few minutes in case George shows up. He does not.
We walk down the gangplank. When we reach the open cabin door I do my crazy preflight ritual, which is to rap my knuckles on the side of the plane to make sure it is not falling apart. Once aboard the Boeing 737, we move toward the rear. Our row is three across. Michael takes the window. I take the middle seat. As I am strapping my seat belt on,a good-looking guy in his early fifties with blondish-grayish hair and a blondish-grayish beard and mustache throws his carry-on bag onto the empty aisle seat.
“Are you Jane, by any chance?”
“George!” I whip out my tape recorder.
Where Peter Abraham was serious and businesslike, George King has an entertaining, seen-it-all attitude. When there is turbulence after takeoff and Isqueeze the arms of my seat, he laughs and says, “You’d better get over that if you’re traveling with the team.”
I ask George how he got started in the business, and he tells me he covered the Phillies in Trenton before getting hired by the Post in ’97.
“This is my 11th season there,” he says. “It’s long hours and a long year—February to November—but it’s a blast.”
“February to November is a long year,” I say. “How does your wife feel about all your traveling?”
“She’s gone a lot, too. She’s a vice president of Bloomingdale’s in charge of women’s shoes.”
“Do the players ever invite you out with them?”
“When I was younger,with the Phillies, yeah. But I’m 51 now, and the players are 30. It’s different. And let’s face it. I work for the New York Post. Do the players really want me around at the Limelight club?”
We both laugh. “Is it true A-Rod won’t talk to you since the Post printed the stuff about the stripper in Toronto?”
“He doesn’t talk to me,” he says with regret. “We were very close, too. I had the best relationship with him of anybody. But after that story ran, he made it very clear that we were done. He doesn’t freeze me out during group interviews, but if he’s by himself, he’ll ignore me.”
“Does that sur
prise you?”
“Not really. He warned us. He said, ‘Hey, if you want to write stuff that’s off limits, it’s gonna hurt.’”
“How did the story even come about?”
“Those pictures fell into our lap. But if it hadn’t been that story it would have been another story. With the Yankees there’s always another story.”
“Do you think A-Rod will opt out?”
“I think he’s gone, yeah. He did it in Seattle, and he did it in Texas. Now he’s done it in New York for 4 years and hit his 500th home run. Time to go find something new.”
“He didn’t get a World Series ring in New York.”
“He’s not gonna get one with this team. The pitching isn’t good enough,and it hasn’t been all year. The kids will make the staff better but not enough.”
“My impression of the Yankees has really changed. They’re a cold, unfeeling organization.”
“A professional sport is a very cold business—probably the coldest business outside of the Mafia.”
“You’re comparing the Yankees to the Mafia?”
“In the sense that it’s cold.”
“What’s the most bizarre thing that ever happened to you while you were covering the Yankees?”
“It was the last day of spring training in ’98. Hideki Irabu was pitching. I came into the clubhouse, and Steinbrenner showed up. I said, ‘George, what did you think of Irabu?’ George said, ‘That fat pussy toad.’”
“Do you miss George being around?”
“The New York Post misses him. He made the telephone ring at 7:00 in the morning. He’d be screaming at you. ‘Wait a minute, George,’ I’d say. ‘I don’t work for you. Why are you calling?’ He’d say, ‘I’m calling to tell you I’m never calling you again.’”
I laugh. “What’s the best part about being a Yankee beat writer?”
“It was February—3 days before spring training and probably the deadest time for the beat writers. The phone rang. A friend of mine said, ‘The Yankees are trading for Alex Rodriguez.’ I said, ‘You know this how?’ He said, ‘I know a company that’s advertising with the Rangers, and they just pulled out of the deal because Alex won’t be there.’ It was Friday night at 5 minutes to 6:00. At 6:00 I was on the phone to Cashman. I didn’t get him. I called the agent, Scott Boras. I didn’t get him, either. I called the Rangers. Didn’t get them. So I needed a story for7o’clock, and we decided to go with it. The point is that one day the Yankees tell me a journeyman like Enrique Wilson is their third baseman. Within 24 hours it’s ‘We got the best player in baseball.’ I wouldn’t be surprised if Mickey Mantle walked in tomorrow. That’s the best part of covering the Yankees. You never know.”
