by Stephen King
Tim Wakefield starts for Boston and gets a solid round of applause: these people remember the games he won in postseason, not the catastrophic season-ending home run he gave up to Aaron Boone. He throws more hard stuff than I’m used to seeing, but Wake’s bread-and-butter pitch is the knuckleball, and to him the really hard stuff is a heater that clocks in at 81 miles an hour (the scoreboard down here gives no radar-gun readout, so we just have to guess). The top of the BC lineup hits him pretty well, and after half an inning they’ve put up a two-spot on four hits. This is a pretty typical early-spring outing for Wakefield, who just throws the one inning. At thirty-seven he’s not only the dean of the Red Sox pitching staff, but the player who’s been with the club longest.
A lot of the guys who see action in the Sox-BC scrimmage (which the Sox eventually win, 9–3, big surprise there) are a lot less familiar. There’s Jesus Medrano, for instance, and career minor leaguer Andy Dominique; there’s Tony Schrager, who is wearing the highest number I’ve ever seen: 95. Holy shit, I think, that could almost be his temperature. These guys and plenty of others will undoubtedly be on their way back to the Pawtucket Red Sox, the Portland Sea Dogs, and the Lowell Spinners (where the team mascot, Stew informs me, is the world-famous Canalligator) when the forty-man roster starts to shrink. For others, so-called invitees like Terry Shumpert, Tony Womack, and the world-famous Dauber, things are more serious. If it doesn’t work here for them, it may not work anywhere. The career of a pro baseball player is longer than that of the average pro basketball or football player, but it is still short compared to that of your average account executive or ad salesman, and although the pay is better, the end can come with shocking suddenness.
But no one worries too much about stuff like that on a day like this. It’s only the second game-day of the short spring season, the weather’s beautiful, and everyone’s loose. Around the fourth inning, Red Sox radio broadcaster Joe Castiglione comes down and sits with Stewart and me for a little while. Like the players, Joe looks trim, tanned and relaxed. He has his own book coming out in a month or so, a wonderful, anecdote-crammed tripdown memory lane called Broadcast Rites and Sites, subtitled I Saw It on the Radio with the Boston Red Sox. (One of the best is about the grand slam Boston catcher Rich Gedman hit off Detroit screwballer Willie Hernandez back in ’86.) He tells us more stories as he sits on the step at the end of the aisle, watching Boston College bat in the top of the fifth. Baseball is a leisurely game, and those of us who love it fill its pauses with stories of other games and other years. When I mention how hard I’m pulling for Brian Daubach to find a home with the ’04 Red Sox, Joe tells us how he set Dauber up with the woman who became his wife. “She said she didn’t like ballplayers because they were always hitting on her,” Joe says, smiling in the warm afternoon sun. “I told her she ought to meet this guy. I told her he was really different. Really nice.” Joe’s smile widens into a grin. “Then I sent Dauber in to get his hair cut,” he finishes. “Case closed.”
Stew and I look at each other and say the same thing at exactly the same moment: What hair? The Dauber’s got a quarter of an inch, at most. And we all laugh. It’s good to be laughing at a baseball game again. God knows the laughs were hard to come by last October.
I ask Joe if the college kids get excited about these games with the pros (I’m thinking of the BC pitcher who struck out big David Ortiz in the third, and wondering if he’ll still be telling people about it when he’s forty-five and paunchy). “Oh, like you wouldn’t believe,” Joe says, and then goes on to tell us the Red Sox player the college kids liked the most was the much maligned Carl Everett, who was dubbed Jurassic Carl by Boston Globe columnist Dan Shaughnessy (for his temper as much as his fundamentalist Christian beliefs), and who has since been traded to the Montreal Expos. “He was great to the [college players],” Joe says. “He’d spend lots of time talking to them and give them all kinds of equipment.” He pauses, then adds, “I bet he prospers in Montreal, because there’s no media coverage. People won’t be watching him so closely.”
By now it’s the bottom of the sixth, and Joe excuses himself. He and his broadcast partner, Jerry Trupiano (“Troop”), are doing the evening game (another slo-mo scrimmage, this time against Northeastern, with a fellow named Schilling starting for the Sox), and he has to prepare. But, like everything else that happens this day, the preparations will be leisurely, more pleasure than business. Joe knows a lot of people back home in New England will be listening, but not exactly paying attention—it’s the Soxversus Northeastern, after all…but it’s also baseball, Schilling on the mound, Garciaparra at short, and Varitek behind the plate (at least for a while, then maybe Kelly Shoppach, another guy with a high number). It’s the fact of it that matters, like that first robin you see on your still-snowy front lawn.
It’s too early to play really hard, and too early to wax really lyrical, either (God knows there’s too much labored lyricism in baseball writing these days; it’s even crept into the newspapers, which used to be bastions of statistics and hard-nosed reality—what sports reporters used to call “the agate”). But it can’t hurt to say that being here—especially after a serious bout of pneumonia—feels pretty goddamn wonderful. It’s like putting your hand out and touching a live thing—another season when great things may happen. Miracles, even. And if that isn’t touching grace, it’s pretty close.
Oh, shit, that’s too close to lyrical for comfort, but it’s been a good day. There was baseball. So let it stand.
March 6th
After a sloppy loss at the Twins’ place, we run into Dauber by the players’ lot. Everyone pushes toward him; it’s not a surge, more of a controlled approach, lots of jockeying. There’s a space of two feet around him that we seem to agree is forbidden. You can reach a ball or a card into it, but anything more would be a violation. No one tries to shake his hand or put an arm around him for a picture, as if that would be too personal.
I’m lucky enough to be in the front, in the middle.
“Welcome back,” I tell him.
“Thank you.” He’s surprisingly soft-spoken, you might even say shy.
“Have you noticed everyone’s been cheering the loudest for you, even here on the road.”
“It means a lot.”
I back off after he signs my ball, and see a Navigator with Illinois plates rolling up. I know Dauber’s the pride of Belleville, Illinois (along with Wilco’s Jeff Tweedy), so I call, “Your ride’s here.”
“Thanks,” he says, and he’s off.
When we get back to the hotel, I’m unwinding on the balcony when I see a woman on the beach in an old Lou Merloni shirt. “Loooooooo ooooooooouuuuuu!” I hoot, and she turns around but doesn’t see me.
For years Lou Merloni—the Pride of Framingham, Massachusetts—was our regular schlub and native son. He could play anywhere in the infield or outfield, and was a reliable pinch hitter. Someone would get hurt, and he’d end up starting, hit .330, and then sit when the guy came back. He was Nomar’s best friend, yet Sox management seemed to delight in shipping him down to Pawtucket and calling him back up, a crazy yo-yo motion. Two years ago we shipped him to San Diego, only to get him back in midseason.
Lou’s gone, off to Cleveland. Lou, who last year Ben Affleck (post-Dogma, pre-Gigli) called a joke during a visit to the Sox broadcast booth. Dauber’s our Lou now.
March 7th
There’s no point trying to beat the crowd today. People will be camping out for this one. Scalpers line Edison like hitchhikers, holding up signs: I NEED TICKETS.
The lot’s almost full two hours before game time. People are tailgating, barbecuing on hibachis. A few rows closer to the park, four cotton-headed grandmothers in full Yankee regalia have their lawn chairs arranged under a shade tree.
Inside, it’s a mini-invasion. The Yanks have brought their A-team: Jeter’s at short and A-Rod, weirdly, is at third. It seems crazy to pay a guy that kind of money to play a corner. It must be ego: A-Rod’s got better range, a better
glove, a better arm. Jeter seems to have lost his concentration the last few years.
A-Rod lets a grounder skip under his glove into left, and the crowd cheers.
I notice the Yanks have a #22—Clemens’s old number. After all Roger’s talk of wanting to go into the Hall wearing a Yankee cap, it seems a calculated insult. While the Sox haven’t officially retired his 21, it’s one of the few numbers that hasn’t been assigned.
I don’t see Giambi or Sheffield, and wonder if the Yankees are protecting them from us. Our seats are down the right-field line, and I’d been looking forward to listening to the fans peppering Sheffield and waving signs like JUICIN’ JASON.
There’s a commotion down by the Sox dugout, and a cheer. Nomar’s come out to shake hands with A-Rod. I only see their heads for an instant before the photographers swamp them. A few minutes later the scene repeats when Nomar greets Jeter.
The Yanks finish hitting—unimpressive except for this huge lefty I don’t recognize. No Giambi or Sheffield. Maybe they’re replacing their blood somewhere like Keith Richards did. And no sign of former Sox closer Tom Gordon, who would be sure to elicit a mixed reaction. I’ve got to ask Steve: Does that girl still love him?
Our lineup’s disappointing: Nomar’s sitting, so are Johnny D, Yankee killer David Ortiz and Dauber, and Trot’s still out. Bronson Arroyo, who threw a perfect game for Pawtucket, is our starter. He may not be Pedro or Schilling but he looks good in the first, getting Kenny Lofton, Jeter and A-Rod in order.
Kapler leads off with an easy grounder to Jeter, who throws it away.
“A-Rod’s smiling,” a guy behind me says.
Kapler steals on Contreras and scores on a single by Bill Mueller. Contreras slows the pace down to Cuban National Team speed, hoping to take away our momentum, but Ellis Burks smacks a single, Kevin Millar whomps a double and we’re up 3–0.
There’s a lot of taunting in the stands, and a Yankee fan snaps back, “Yeah, you guys are great in March.”
“What do Yankee fans use for birth control?” one guy asks, then answers, “Their personalities.”
In the bottom of the second, Pokey Reese, subbing for Nomar, takes Contreras deep. The Yanks bring in Rivera to stop the bleeding, as if this is Game 7.
The Sox counter with minor leaguer Jason Shiell, who melts down. Francona makes no concessions to the rivalry, or even the game. This is spring training, and he leaves Shiell in to see if he can fight his way out.
The big lefty who was blasting them in batting practice turns out to be veteran Tony Clark, who golfs a three-run shot.
“Let’s go Mets!” someone yells.
“Let’s go Tigers!”
“Let’s go Sox!”
The Yankees are still worried, it seems, because they bring in Felix Heredia to pitch the seventh and eighth. McCarty, who’s played the whole game, hits into a 4-6-3 double play in the eighth, making him 0 for 4. In the top of the ninth he blocks a hot smash at first, then kicks the ball away.
“How’s the weather in Pawtucket?” someone yells.
Hyzdu strikes out to end it. The final’s 11–7. Unsatisfying, but we did win the A game, knocking Contreras around, and Arroyo looked good.
Outside, we walk by the players’ lot, ogling a classic tomato-red GTO convertible. Someone says it’s Nomar’s, except he’s already left with Mia Hamm in her car.
A Jeep Cherokee with BK in it flies by us.
“You’re making friends,” someone shouts after him.
Several people confirm a new trade rumor: BK and Trot for Randy Johnson.
Most of the big names are long gone, but first-base coach Lynn Jones rolls down his window and signs, as does Cesar Crespo, driving a pimped-out Integra with Konig rims. Terry Francona doesn’t stop—“Another bad decision!”
A young guy pulls up in a Taurus. No one can place him. He stops and rolls down his window, but no one approaches.
“I’m only a rookie,” he says. “You probably wouldn’t want my autograph.”
He’s right, but we can’t say that to his face.
“Sure we do.” A couple of parents push their kids forward.
It’s Josh Stevens, a pitcher for the PawSox.
There are only four people left when we take off. It’s almost five.
Driving back to the hotel, I say, “I wonder if the Twins are playing tonight.”
“You want a divorce?” Trudy asks.
March 9th
We’re home, it’s snowing, and summer seems a long way off. Maybe it’s the weather, but that connection to the Sox that felt so strong just yesterday feels tenuous. I tell Steve it’s like getting a taste of high summer and then having it snatched away. By season’s end, I imagine it will seem Edenic, all possibility and perfect weather.
That night while we’re watching TV, Dunkin’ Donuts runs a commercial starring Curt Schilling. Schilling sits by his locker, eating a breakfast sandwich and listening to a language tape teaching him Bostonspeak. “Wicked hahd,” he repeats between bites. “Pahk. Play wicked hahd when I go to the pahk.” For several years now the spokesperson for Dunkin’ Donuts has been Nomar. Another sign he’s leaving?
March 12th
I catch an interview with PawSock third baseman Kevin Youkilis at the practice fields. In Michael Lewis’s Moneyball, A’s general manager Billy Beane champions Youkilis as “The Greek God of Walks.” He’s the kind of player Beane loves: average glove, so-so wheels, but a great eye, quick bat and astonishing on-base percentage. Likewise, Bill James, the Sox’s statistical guru, is high on the guy’s numbers. The interviewer is optimistic about Youkilis’s chances of making the team, which I think is crazy. He’s fourth on the depth chart behind Shump, and Shump’s probably not going to make it.
Youkilis is positive but realistic. “Hopefully I’ll make it up to Fenway this year”—meaning a cup of coffee in September when they expand the roster. Clips roll of the Monster seats and Pedro going up the ladder on a flailing Devil Ray, and again I’m ready for the season to start.
March 13th
Mr. Kim has a sore shoulder. I’m not surprised, with that goofy motion. Bronson Arroyo may take his slot, though the Courant says that during the first few weeks of the season the schedule’s spread out enough that we can go with a four-man rotation.
Steve’s not upset. He says Kim looked lost out there in the playoffs, as if he didn’t know where the ball was going.
“He’s only twenty-five,” I say, “and he’s already pitched in a lot of big games.”
“That’s part of his problem.” Stat maven Bill James found that the more innings pitchers threw before the age of twenty-three, the more problems they had later in their careers.
“What about Clemens?”
“James doesn’t count college. Clemens is actually one of the guys he uses to make his case. And Clemens is an exception, he’s a workhorse. Dan Duquette found that out when he looked at his stats and said his career was over.”
I don’t see how James can have it both ways—an example and an exception—and it seems notable that the only championship Clemens ever really led his team to was the College World Series, but even the devil can quote Scripture for his purposes.
* * *
In bed, in the dark, I match last year’s rotation to this year’s. Schilling’s a major upgrade from John Burkett, but who is Kim—now Arroyo—replacing? It takes me a minute to recall Casey Fossum—or Blade, as we called him, since he weighed about 140 pounds, his front literally concave. He was the guy we wouldn’t trade last spring to get Bartolo Colon, hoping he’d develop into a steady lefty starter. He was in and out all year with injuries and never got it going. Kim is an improvement on him, but Arroyo is in pretty much the same place Blade was two years ago, a triple-A player trying to earn that number five slot. We’ll be stronger, but there’ll still be a weak spot other managers can attack, stealing series by feeding their weaker pitchers to our aces, matching their ace against Lowe and then throwing their number two and three g
uys against Wake and Arroyo.
Should I be worrying about this now?
Terry Francona better be.
March 14th
In the Sunday sports section are two pictures of Jason Giambi, a before and after comparison that makes me go, “Whoa.” In the one from last year he’s pudgy-cheeked, a pad of fat under his chin, his biceps filling his sleeves. The one from a couple weeks ago shows a drawn, scrawny guy, rock-star thin, as if he’s been hit by some wasting disease. My immediate reaction isn’t partisan but humane: God, I hope he’s okay.
I don’t catch the final of today’s game until the late news. Pedro had control problems and walked in a run, but Johnny D homered and we beat the O’s 5–2. I’m glad we won, but it doesn’t really matter. I’m more concerned with Pedro’s walk total from last year, and the trouble he had finding the plate in the playoffs. It’s been three years since he’s been consistently dominant, and I wonder if he’ll ever get back to that level.
Because back then, there was no doubt. In 2001, we went to a game he was supposed to throw against Seattle, when Seattle was the hottest team in the majors. The game was delayed by rain about two hours, and we were worried that Pedro wouldn’t start because of the cold. He came out in the first and got Ichiro on three pitches, then John Olerud on three pitches, and then Edgar Martinez on three pitches. Nine pitches, nine strikes. I looked at Steph like, what did we just see?
