Fenway Fever

by John Ritter

  “Right,” said Mark. “The Yankees series is worth a mint.”

  “Not only that,” Stats began, even as his mind whirled in calculation, “if you sold the remaining tickets for this season and, say, the rights to next year’s tickets—it could be enough to pay off the whole bill.”

  Pops brought his fingers to his chin. “That much, huh?” Then just as quickly, he waved his hand, shooshing the suggestion right out of his brain.

  “I could never do that. It’s not honest.”

  “Actually, Pops, it is,” said Mark. “People do it all the time.”

  “People do a lot of things. But my own father never made a profit on those seats, and I’m not about to start looking at them like pieces of merchandise.”

  “But times are different now.”

  Pops was not having any of it. “No, no, forget I ever brought it up. Those seats are sacred. Either we use them, or I give them away. That’s it. Besides, it’s good for business. My vendors always give me their best deals. So the seats end up paying for themselves in the long run.”

  “But in the short run,” Mark argued, “they could really help.” Then he leaned over, picked up the newspaper, and gave it a flick. “Of course, if they keep losing like they are now, might be a time when you won’t even get back what you paid for them.”

  CHAPTER 15

  Stats spent two full days in the hospital and not only had to suffer watching Tuesday night’s game against Baltimore on the small TV, but had to witness yet another loss.

  On Wednesday night, home at last with his good-luck props, Stats watched the Sox barely preserve a lead, four runs whittled down to one by the ninth, to finally end their longest losing streak of the season at five games. They finished the night where they began, however. They now sat in third place, five games behind the Yankees, who had also won, and three behind the Rays.

  In Baltimore on Thursday, Billee was scheduled to pitch. By then, Stats was feeling back to normal, and all he wanted to do was to cozy up to a bowl of Pops’s popcorn, watch Billee stymie the Orioles, and enjoy the game.

  In the bottom of the first, when Billee took the mound in Camden Yards, the Baltimore fans rose in support. It was heartwarming to see. Close-up shots even revealed hundreds of Red Sox fans who were either from the area or die-hard supporters who had made the trip south from Boston, cheering and holding signs of encouragement.

  BEAM ME UP BILLEE!

  ORBITT’S IN A LEAGUE OF HIS ZONE.

  And three girls bounced a long colorful sign saying, BILLEE’S NUTS! HERE COME DA LEAFLUTZ!

  Well, the first batter for the Orioles should have taken note. He went down on strikes, thrashing wildly at “da leaflutz.” Sadly, though, it was the last batter Billee would retire.

  He got shelled. Nothing seemed to be working. They crushed his buckler, they hammered his dipster. Even when his leaflutz pitch induced a dribbler from the Orioles’ cleanup hitter, the usually sure-handed Sandiego Gunsalvo at first base could not come up with it. And when he finally ran it down, he threw it away.

  Run after run crossed the plate. Stats watched in horror. He saw poor Billee stand tall on the mound, looking up, repeatedly taking in deep breaths in order to calm himself and refocus. All to no avail.

  Stats muted the sound.

  Billee left the game in the first with only one out, bases loaded, and five runs across, four of them earned. The Orioles had batted around.

  For once in his life, Stats was glad he was not at the ballpark. He did not watch the commercial that came on while the reliever warmed up, even though it was a Fen-Cent message featuring Matt Damon, Jimmy Fallon, and Drew Barrymore romanticizing about their days at Fenway. He did not watch any more of the game.

  So much for feeling “normal.” He could feel his heart straining under the stress of what he’d seen on TV, knowing what the Sox had just gone through.

  “What’s the deal with Billee, Freddy?” Mark asked as he walked into the room. “I just flipped on the radio, and he was already gone. Seems worse than just some curse. He say anything about feeling bad?”

  “Not as far as I know.”

  “He got chewed, glued, and tattooed.”

  “I know. I saw. What am I supposed to do about it?”

  “Hey, don’t get mad at me.”

  “I’m not. But how should I know? I’m not his pitching coach. I’m just a kid he talks to every once in a while.”

  “Okay, sorry. I didn’t mean to …”

  “He was off balance, that’s all. He’s been like that. It happens. Doesn’t mean he’s a lousy pitcher.”

  “No one ever said that. Cheese, I feel bad, too, you know. I was just wondering.”

  Mark wandered out of the room.

  Stats lay flat across the sofa cushions, the better to let the “sludge” pump through his slow-moving heart.

  A lot of possibilities ran through his mind. None of them gave him any comfort. Billee could be sliding, could be swirldraining his way into baseball oblivion. Countless pitchers had done the same. They come up out of nowhere, dominate for a year or two, then for some unexplainable reason, they lose whatever magic they had and slip out of sight with hardly anyone even noticing.

  But if he were sick or hurt or overworked, that stuff was at least fixable. Even if it was the sophomore jinx everyone talks about, he could bounce back from that. But if this was truly the harbinger of a new Red Sox curse, and tonight Stats had no reason whatsoever to doubt it, the thing had to be broken right away. Or else it could go on for a long time.

  CHAPTER 16

  On Saturday morning, Stats and Mark took a break from Red Sox baseball, having suffered through yet another road loss on Friday. They clambered down the exterior stairway and, with the heavenly scent of fresh-cut grass filling their heads, they crossed Shawmut Avenue to the neighborhood ballfield where Mark’s under-16 team, the Back Bay Bums, had a game.

  It was a great day to be outside walking around, and with the Sox on the road, Stats and Mark would not need to rush off to Fenway as soon as the game ended.

  Today Stats could, in fact, relax.

  Arriving forty-five minutes before game time, Stats took his usual spot on the dugout bench, where he sat every game as the Bums’ official team scorekeeper. Number 2 pencil ready, scorebook spread open, he was all set to begin copying down the lineup Coach Carrigan had taped to the post.

  And if Billee Orbitt was having a cursed year, Mark Pagano, who sat nearby sticking on black shade strips beneath his eyes, was having a stellar one.

  In the prestigious Young Majors Baseball League, which had leagues set up in all twenty-eight Major League cities across the continent, Mark was held in the highest regard. He had patterned himself after the Breeze, and it had been an inspired choice. A true five-tool player, Mark had just lately mastered the bare-handed catch of the double play feed at second, which Ruíz used in order to gain a step.

  “Guys, listen up,” said Coach Carrigan, approaching the dugout. “One announcement before we start getting loose. We heard from YMBL headquarters in St. Louis last night. This year, because of the Fenway Park celebrations, there’s going to be a national all-star team selected from YMBL players across the nation. They’ll play against an all-star team from Japan for the YMBL World Championship.”

  “Whoa, they get to go to Japan?” said Jacky Kerwacki, a new kid from Lowell, who played either third base or was out in left field.

  Coach frowned. “Hey, Kerwacki, I said listen. Not done yet. The American team will host the inaugural game. And the host field this year will be Fenway Park.”

  The team rumbled and hooted. “No way!” “Awesome.” “I’m going.”

  “How do they pick the team?” asked Jonny Peskovich, the second baseman.

  “They’ll take the top player at each position plus two alternates and one designated hitter. Twelve guys in all.”

  Jimmy Zorro, a hard-hitting first baseman, asked, “How do they decide who’s the top player at every po
sition?”

  “Stats.”

  Stats looked up. “Yeah, Coach?”

  “No, I mean your stats will determine your ranking. Just like in the Major Leagues with the Golden Glove and the Silver Slugger awards. Only difference is, your offensive and defensive stats will be combined into one final ranking. And, look. We still have nine games to go, so a lot can happen.”

  There was a low group hum of comprehension as the players processed the coach’s news.

  “What if you play more than one position?” asked Kerwacki.

  “As far as I can tell, they’ll take your fielding numbers at each spot and combine them to get your final stats. Whichever position you played the most innings at is your main spot, and that’s the category you’ll compete in. And by tomorrow night, each league will have the stats of their top five guys at each spot posted on the national website. That list gets updated daily from then on.” He clapped his hands. “Okay, ’at’s it. Let’s warm up.”

  The players jumped off the bench and scrambled to the outfield grass. All except for Mark. He waited until they’d all left, then spoke softly to Stats. “Wonder where I am on the shortstop list.”

  “You’re number one for sure.”

  “No, I don’t mean for our league. I mean across the country.”

  “I’ll find out as soon as the other numbers are posted.”

  Mark nodded. “Not that I care. Gotta be a long shot.”

  “Are you kidding? You’re right in there for sure. And Fenway Park! Representing America’s best? Come on!”

  “Yeah, whatever. Could be a hundred guys in front of me.”

  Stats knew the game Mark was playing now. Act as if you don’t care. Don’t get your hopes up—at least, don’t ever let anyone else know how high your hopes really are.

  “Well, have a good game,” he said. “Now you’re really playing for something big.”

  Mark rose, grabbed his glove. “We’ll see. Like Coach said. It’s all gonna come down to one thing.” He flicked his brother’s hat brim. “Stats.”

  The game that day was raucous. Playing before a great neighborhood crowd, both teams hit well, though neither side had pitched well. Finally, the Back Bay Bums came out on top of a 12–11 slugfest.

  One thing Stats loved about these games was being among the fans who came to watch. These people were baseball enthusiasts, sportsmen, students of the game. It was not just family members, but shopkeepers, mailmen, next-door neighbors, and teachers of the players who attended. That meant both teams heard cheers from both sides for a particularly difficult defensive play or a heads-up baserunning maneuver. For instance, in the third inning when Mark rounded first and spied a flat-footed left fielder double-pumping the relay, he took an extra base, which prompted knowing shouts and compliments from all around.

  Such plays not only earned respect and general enthusiasm, but brought the happy fans back game after game.

  And why not? Boston was a fantastic baseball town, and overall, the fans were among the most—if not the most—knowledgeable in the land. Stats only wished he would witness some of this local sportsmanship when things got rough for Billee and the Sox at Fenway.

  CHAPTER 17

  Meanwhile, the curse got worse.

  The Red Sox finished the weekend series in Toronto dropping two out of three against the Blue Jays. On Monday night, the Sox used four pitchers during a game in Tampa that Stats wished he had recorded so he could have simply deleted it without bothering to watch. Fireballer Cedro Marichal started. He was wild in the strike zone, got bombed, and left in the third inning with two outs, two on, and five runs across. From there, it only went downhill.

  On Tuesday night, Billee was scheduled to pitch, but the Sox decided to go with their hottest pitcher, Will “Cannonball” Jackman, instead. Fortunately, even on four days’ rest, Cannonball pitched well enough to win, lasting six and giving up only four runs, three earned, to stop the Red Sox’s slide. Even so, the Sox now sat six games out of first.

  Since Stats had donned his lucky KidLid halfway through tonight’s game, he wore it to bed, too, hoping it might help sustain the team’s luck.

  It didn’t. The Sox lost two more in Tampa before finally returning home for a game on Friday, when they would face the Kansas City Royals. Billee was now scheduled to start against the Royals on Saturday.

  During all the hubbub, as Pops called it, Stats had also managed to see Doc Roberts, and, once again, things could have gone better. While the doc checked out Stats’s heart, a look of concern clouded his face.

  “What is it?” said Pops.

  Doc hesitated a moment before he answered. “Angelo, I want you and Freddy to stop by Children’s Hospital next week and have them rerun a few tests.” He rose. “Nothing to worry about. But I just want to be sure. Then I want to see you two back here once I get a look at the results.”

  Nothing to worry about, thought Stats, and he was eager to leave it at that.

  Pops, however, carried the doctor’s cloud of concern all the way home.

  On that Friday afternoon, while Stats tended the kettles at Papa Pagano’s, he monitored the street for Billee. He was bursting to tell him everything he’d learned about quartz and amethyst crystals and bogs, even though he was not quite certain what any of it meant.

  Meanwhile, the game day patrons vented their frustrations over the Red Sox’s road trip, which had left them seven games out of first. It had been quite a fall after being at the top of their division only two weeks before.

  “Total meltdown, that’s what it is,” said Announcer Bouncer in his bellowing voice. “Reminds me of 1986. And I don’t mean the Game Six fiasco. I mean Chernobyl.”

  “Ah, it’s still early in the season,” said Mark, not wanting Bouncer’s comments to contaminate the line. “Over the last hundred years, we’ve pretty much seen it all.”

  “But over the last ten years,” said Lulu, another regular customer, “this stretch is right up there with the worst.”

  “Should’ve picked up some better talent during the winter,” Bouncer added. “We get charged an arm and a leg for tickets to these games. The least they could’ve done was to go out and buy us a few arms and a couple of legs, right, guys?”

  Everyone laughed at that, but there didn’t seem to be any relief in it. Stats knew as well as anyone that witnessing your home team fall, one painful game at a time, from first to fourth in their division, behind New York, Tampa, and Toronto, is not an easy thing to laugh off.

  But he simply kept busy, wrapping up and passing along the last of Bouncer’s ten-dog order without uttering a word.

  Besides, what could he say? That the team was truly cursed? Who would want to hear that?

  So for now, Stats focused on checking up and down Yawkey for Billee’s arrival.

  Sadly, the only other person on planet earth who shared the depth of Stats’s concern over the Sox did not make his way to the stand that day. Ah, he’s busy, thought Stats. Other things to worry about. After all, he’s pitching tomorrow.

  For some reason, though, during the game, Stats could not shake his nervousness. He rocked in his seat with his scorebook on his lap for the first two hours, anxiously watching while Will “Cannonball” Jackman, with his hard-sinking forkball, held the Royals to three runs through seven. It turned out to be a seesaw nail-biter that the Sox ultimately won 6–5. As luck would have it, though, the Yankees had won as well, so the Sox did not gain any ground.

  After the game, Stats headed straight to the bull pen area and sat in the seats above, waiting for the park to clear, just on the off chance he could spy Billee heading for his meditational haunt.

  When Mark finally appeared at his side, he bugged Stats to go home.

  Knowing that it could be a long wait for Billee to show up—if he does at all—Stats reluctantly agreed to join his brother and troop on home.

  Besides, tomorrow was another day, with two great games on tap. First off, Mark would go into his morning match versus
Cambridge ranked third nationwide in the YMBL shortstop category. A really strong game might actually put him on top.

  Then that night, Billee would take the hill against the Royals, a team he always did well against.

  Maybe things weren’t so bad after all. Hey, as Mark had said, still a lot of baseball left to go. Who says it can’t get better?

  CHAPTER 18

  Saturday morning, at the Cambridge Cavemen baseball park, Stats mentioned Mark’s status to Coach Carrigan, who took the good news in stride.

  “I just hope Mark doesn’t start pressing,” said the coach, pacing in the visitors’ dugout as the Bums warmed up. “I want to see him get back to driving the ball up the middle. Last game, he was out in front, yanking it.”

  Stats hummed a quiet response. He knew Mark was pressing. How could he not? They’d even talked about it. The thing was, as Mark explained, “Telling yourself to be patient at the plate and being patient are two different bananas.”

  Mark’s first at bat Saturday against the Cambridge ace, Frannie Matthews, proved the point. For the first time in seven games, he struck out. And for a pure contact hitter like Mark, striking out was not a good sign.

  “I got anxious,” he said. “Chased one outside. I wish they would just pitch to me. What are they afraid of?”

  Well, now, thought Stats. Twelve home runs, forty-seven runs batted in, a .514 batting average—just to name a few.

  “Get ’em next time,” mumbled Stats, regretting he had to pencil in a K next to his brother’s name.

  Later on, he penciled another K, this one in reverse, to indicate Mark had been caught looking at the third strike. But between those strikeouts, Mark scratched out two singles, going two-for-four on the day, and wound up scoring the winning run. Yes, he was nervous, pressing. But he was still Mark.