Faithful

by Stephen King

  Hey, I’ve been lucky. No sex issues, no gambling issues, moderate food issues. I do, however, have a serious problem with the Boston Red Sox, and have ever since they came so damned close to winning the whole thing in ’67. Before then, I was what you might call a recreational Red Sox user. Since then I’ve been a full-blown junkie, wearing my hat with the scarlet B on the front for six months straight and suffering a serious case of hat-head while I obsess over the box scores. I check the Boston Red Sox official website, and all the unofficial ones as well (most of them fucking dire); I scoff at the so-called Curse of the Bambino, believing completely in myheart even though I know it is the bullshit creation of one talented and ambitious sportswriter. [1]

  Worst of all, during the season I become as much a slave to my TV and radio as any addict ever was to his spike. I have been asked by several people if working on this book is a hardship, given the fact that I have two other books coming out this year (the final novels in the Dark Tower cycle), a television series still in production (that would be Kingdom Hospital on ABC, the Detroit Tigers of network broadcasting), and a half-finished new novel sitting on my desk. The answer is no—it’s not a hardship but a relief. I would either be sitting at Fenway or in my living room with the TV tuned to NESN (the New England Sports Network, the regional pusher that services addicts like me) in any case; this book legitimizes my obsession and allows me to indulge it to an even greater degree. In the language of addiction, the book’s publisher has become my enabler and my colleague, Stewart O’Nan, is my codependent.

  Now, nine hours before Sidney Ponson of the Orioles throws his first pitch to the first Red Sox batter of the season, I can look at my situation coldly and clearly: I am a baseball junkie, pure and simple. Or perhaps it’s even more specific than that. Perhaps I’m a Red Sox junkie, pure and simple. I’m hoping it’s choice B, actually. If it is, and the Sox win the World Series this year, this nearly forty-year obsession of mine may break like a long-term (very long-term) malarial fever. Certainly this team has the tools, but Red Sox fans do not need the bad mojo of some false “curse” to appreciate the odd clouds of bad luck that often gather around teams that seem statistically blessed. Outfitted in the off-season with strong pitching and defense to go with their formidable hitting, the Sox suddenly find themselves short two of their most capable players: Nomar Garciaparra and Trot Nixon. 2003 batting champ Bill Mueller, suffering supposed elbow problems (from swinging a leaded bat in the on-deck circle?—I wonder), has seen little spring training action. And Cadillac closer Keith Foulke has been, let’s face it, nothing short of horrible.

  But for the true junkie—er, fan, I mean, true fan—such perverse clouds of darkness do not matter. The idea of starting 0 and 22, for instance (as the Orioles once did), is pushed firmly to the back of the mind. [2] There will be no Sopranos tonight at 9 P.M., even if the Sox trail byfive in the seventh inning; there will be no Deadwood tonight at 10 P.M. even if Keith Foulke comes on in the eighth, blows a three-run Sox lead, and then gives up an extra three for good measure. Tonight, barring a stroke or a heart attack, I expect to be in until the end, be it bitter or sweet. And the same could be said for the season as a whole. I’m going to do pretty much what I did last year, in other words (only this year I expect to get paid for it). Which is pretty much addiction in a nutshell: doing the same thing over and over, and expecting a different result.

  Right now it’s only 10 A.M., though, and the house is quiet. No one’s playing baseball yet. I’m fever-free for another nine hours, and I’m enjoying it. Don’t get me wrong, I’ll enjoy the baseball game, too. The first one’s always a thrill. I think that’s true even if you’re a Tigers or Devil Rays fan (a team that looks much improved this year, by the way). But by August, in the heat of a pennant race, I always start to resent the evenings spent following baseball and to envy the people who can take it or just turn it off and read a good book. Myself, I’ve never been that way. I’m an addict, you see. And I’m a fan. And if there’s a difference, I don’t see it.

  Opening on the road sucks. You can’t feel the perfect newness of the season up close. A true home opener’s a pearl, smooth and untouched. Not this year. By the time the team gets to Fenway, whether we’re 4-0 or 0-4, the season will have been rubbed up, scuffed, cut. And it’ll still be cold.

  It’s forty-three and breezy in Baltimore. Hot dog wrappers and plastic bags drift by behind the home-plate ump. I’m at home, digging the game on NESN from my cozy couch. Don Orsillo and Jerry Remy talk about Opening Day jitters, and to prove them right, in the first Bill Mueller throws one wide of Millar. Melvin Mora lets him off the hook by trying to take third on a bloop single, and Manny easily guns him down. In the top of the next inning, Mora lifts his glove and lets a grounder go through his legs.

  The heart of the O’s lineup is made of their big off-season free agents—former MVP Miguel Tejada and All Stars Rafael Palmeiro and Javy Lopez. In the second, Lopez, seeing his first pitch as an O, plants a high fastball from Pedro in the left-field seats, and the crowd chants, “Ja-vy, Ja-vy.” Don points out that the fastball was clocked at 89.

  Pedro’s missing the plate, pulling his hard curve a good two feet outside on righties. Gibbons singles, then Pedro plunks David Segui. There are no outs. Bigbie hits an excuse-me roller to Pedro, who checks second and goes to first. The throw’s to the home side of the bag, and looks like Millar can handle it, but it tips off his glove and skips away. Gibbons scores and the runners move up. “Payyyyd-rooooo, Payyyyd-rooooo,” the crowd taunts. He leaves a change-up up to Matos, who singles in Segui. Matos steals second. In the bullpen Bronson Arroyo is warming.

  Don and Jerry debate the possibility that something’s physically wrong with Pedro; maybe he’s having trouble gripping the ball in the cold. Pedro quiets them (and the crowd) by striking out Roberts and Mora, bringing up Tejada, who looks thicker around the middle, positively husky for a shortstop. He hits one deep to right-center that Johnny Damon tracks down, and we’re out of it.

  Jerry says we’re lucky to be down only three runs, and while he’s right, I don’t feel lucky. Two innings into the opener and the season’s turning to shit.

  We get a run back in the top of the third when Manny rips a single off Ponson’s back leg. In the bottom, Bellhorn and Pokey turn a nifty two to end the inning and touch gloves on their way to the dugout. So some things are working.

  In the fourth, on a ball to the right-field corner with two down and the number nine hitter coming up, Dale Sveum holds Kapler at third, though the throw goes into second without a cutoff man. “Don’t be stupid,” I plead, too late. And then Pokey, for no reason I can see, tries to sneak a bunt past Ponson and is an easy third out.

  Pedro’s settled down, giving up only two hits since the second. It’s still only 3–1 in the seventh when David Ortiz launches one down the right-field line—foul.

  In the seventh, Timlin comes in and walks two, gives up a bloop to Tejada and a Palmeiro single through a shifted infield, and it’s 4–1. Dave Wallace makes a visit to the mound but doesn’t take Timlin out. The next batter, Javy Lopez, hits a long fly to right-center that hangs up. Johnny D tracks it as the wind takes it away from him. Kapler’s angling in from right to back up the play. Johnny looks up, then looks over at Kapler. Kapler looks at Johnny. The ball lands between them. With two outs, everyone’s running, and Palmeiro hoofs it all the way around from first.

  This is when everyone leaves, including Trudy. It’s eleven o’clock on a Sunday, and the game has been plain ugly. It continues that way. The reliever for the O’s walks the bases loaded and gives up a run on a fielder’s choice. Later, Cesar Crespo makes a throw in the dirt that Millar should scoop but doesn’t, letting in another run. In the top of the ninth it’s 7–2 and thirty degrees and Camden Yards is empty, yet the fans I see behind the dugout—this is so typical it makes me laugh—are all Red Sox fans. And here I am, the only one left awake in the house, watching to the bitter end.

  Tom Caron and Denni
s Eckersley break it down on Extra Innings, but really, what can you say about a game like this? The most obvious stat is 14 men left on base. Johnny D went 0 for 5 in the leadoff spot, Tek went 0 for 4. Timlin gave up three earned runs in two-thirds of an inning (and one of those outs was Tek cutting down a runner on a risky pitchout). They pick on Pokey, showing the bunt attempt. Eck says he understands the strategy but, “If it doesn’t work, it looks horrible.” They also examine Millar’s footwork on the throwing error charged to Pedro that kept the O’s rally going. Instead of posting up at the front corner of the bag with his right foot so he can stretch towards Pedro with his left (and his glove), Millar is facing the bag with his left foot in the center so that he has to reach across his body to handle the throw. Basically, he nonchalanted it and cost us a couple of runs.

  I turn it off. What’s demoralizing isn’t losing—we’ll lose 60–70 games this year (knock wood)—it’s playing badly. If this had been the first week of the NFL season, the announcers would have said this team has a lot of work to do.

  April 5th

  I can’t help running a quick postmortem, scanning the story in the morning paper. Francona stands by his man Sveum, saying Kapler would have been meat if he’d gone. I hope this kind of denial isn’t indicative of the new emperor.

  SK: The bad news this morning is that the Red Sox lost their opener and Pedro looked very mortal. The good news is that there was baseball.

  SO: Pedro had a bad inning, helped along by Millar. Still, he settled down after the second, and we were in the game till Timlin let it get away.

  Think Pokey bunted on his own? Is he going to be like Steve “Psycho” Lyons?

  SK: Yeah, I think Pokey Reese bunted on his own, and I think it was the break point in the game for the Red Sox. You can say there are a lot of games left and I would agree, but Gil Hodges (I think it was Hodges) said, “First games are big games,” and if he meant they set the tone, I agree. And I know, I know, two-out rallies are always chancy. All the more reason to play it straight, right? Here’s your situation: Millar, who really only hits middle relievers with reliability, opens the fourth by flying out to center. Kapler singles. Tek-money—Tek-small-change in April—hits a bat-busting pop to short. Two out. Bellhorn doubles. Runners at second and third, that sets the stage for Mr. Reese, who can tie the game with a righteous single. Instead, he bunts—hard—and is out easily, pitcher to first. Easy to read his thinking: Ponson’s a porker, if I place it right, I get on to load ’em up for Johnny Damon, or maybe Kapler scores. But even if Kapler does score, we’re still behind, and that early in the game, you’d think he’d be swinging away. So yeah—I think it was a plan he hatched in his own head, and a classic case of a baseball player taking dumb pills. Which leads me to something my elder son said this afternoon: “Dad, I don’t envy you this book—you could have picked the wrong year. A team this high-octane could stall with the wrong manager and be out of it in the first month.” I don’t say it will happen, but he’s got a point, and I hope the Pokester got a stern talking-to about that bunt.

  I don’t intend to deconstruct every game—or even most of them—but that bunt made me a lot more uneasy than the way Pedro Martinez threw on a cold night.

  It’s Opening Day for the rest of the league, and ESPN has wall-to-wall coverage. I catch pieces of the Cubs-Reds game (Sean Casey, a Pittsburgh native, blasts a two-run double off of Kerry Wood); a rare TV appearance by the Pirates taking on Kevin Millwood and the Phils (my brother’s somewhere in the freezing center-field bleachers); and the Astros with Nolan Ryan in the dugout hosting Barry Bonds, Willie Mays and the Giants (lots of home run talk but not a word about steroids from Joe Morgan). I watch the games with mild interest, but can’t commit to any of them. I wish the Sox were playing today so we could get back on the winning track and ditch this bad morning-after feeling. It’s just impatience. I’ve waited all winter for Schilling. I can wait one more day.

  April 6th

  I have to do a reading over in Bristol, Rhode Island. It’s a gig I set up months ago, hoping it wouldn’t interfere with Opening Day. It won’t, but today’s game in Baltimore starts at 3:05, and I’m meeting a class then, and dining with the faculty at 5:30.

  My host, Adam, says we could have a beer in between and catch a few innings. We find a bar down by the water with the sun flooding through the windows. The place must have six TVs. None of them is showing the game. We start some chatter about Schilling making his debut, and a pair of regulars join the chorus. The barmaid finds NESN for the big-screen on the wall. Beside it is a printout of a picture I’ve seen on eBay: a little towheaded boy about three years old in a Sox shirt on someone’s shoulders. He’s leaning toward the field, screaming and giving someone a tiny finger.

  There’s Schilling, sitting on the bench, going over something on a clipboard. It’s 3–1 Sox in the seventh, and Embree’s in. The O’s only have six hits, so I assume Schilling threw well.

  The two locals at the bar next to us start grousing about Pedro leaving Sunday’s game before it was over. “When are they gonna do something about him?”

  In the eighth, Melvin Mora hits a medium-deep fly to right-center. Johnny D drifts over. It’s his ball, obviously, but Millar, unaccustomed to playing right, keeps coming. The memory of the pop falling between Johnny and Kapler Sunday night is still fresh, and neither takes his eyes off the ball. Johnny gets there first. As he makes the catch, his shoulder catches Millar flush in the face, knocking him on his ass like a vicious blindside on a kick return. Millar stays down.

  The guys in the truck roll the collision between Johnny and Damian Jackson in last year’s playoffs, Johnny’s head snapping back and then the ambulance idling on the outfield grass. They show it twice, both times getting a vocal reaction from the whole bar. Then they show today’s collision two more times. Millar spits a little blood, but he looks more dazed than anything, blinking and squeezing the bridge of his nose. He comes out and Cesar Crespo makes his debut as a right fielder.

  The next batter, Tejada, hits a fly to deep right-center. This time Johnny waves his throwing hand high above his head to call off Crespo, and that’s the inning.

  Foulke is warming, but we have to go to dinner—we’re already twenty minutes late.

  “They look like they’re in good shape,” Adam says as we head to the restaurant.

  “Never say that,” I say.

  SK: Nice game today. It went almost exactly the way the BoSox geneticists would like them to go. You get six innings from Schilling, who gives up a single run. One inning from Embree (no runs), one inning from Timlin (no runs), and one from Foulke, who gets the save. Also on the plus side is my BOSOX CLUB hat, which seems to be quite lucky. I plan to wear it until the lining falls out.

  P.S. More questions about Francona: (1) Was Pedro consciously testing the new manager’s authority by leaving when he did during the first game? (2) Was F. wrong to pull Manny from the field when he did, thus denying Manny the chance to bat in the ninth inning? (3) What’s up with his unwillingness to sacrifice the runners to the next base(s)?

  SO: (1) Dunno what’s up with Pedro, but it seems early to be riding the guy. (2) Yes, definitely a mistake to pull Manny when Millar’s the non-outfielder out there (see what happened?). (3) His distaste for the sac bunt is straight from the Bill James bible: don’t give up any outs, even what we might think are necessary ones.

  SK: Also, the guy just doesn’t look like a manager to me. Yon Francona has a lean and stupid look.

  SO: Well, Grady didn’t exactly strike me as a Stephen Hawking figure.

  April 7th

  Not only did the Sox win, but the Yanks lost. The D-Rays beat on Mussina again, so they’re on top of the division. Go, you crazy Lou!

  Schilling threw 109 pitches yesterday, topping out at 98 mph. I know the gun down there is fast, because it clocked Ponson at 97, but still, knowing Schilling’s strong makes me optimistic about the season.

  While I was out yesterday, Matt from my agent
’s office called and left a message with Steph that says he wants to talk about Opening Day. I’m thinking it has to do with tickets, but it’s about Opening Day in Baltimore. He went. A friend came up with tickets at the last minute, and he put everything aside and hopped on a cheap flight. He says the wind was crazy; the two big oriole weather vanes on top of the scoreboard in center were spinning in opposite directions.

  He was surprised at the venom of the O’s fans. After Pedro hit Segui, they were chanting “Pedro Sucks.” I’m not surprised. Pedro can come off as arrogant, and after dominating for so long, he’s earned some payback. The same with the Sox lately. They’re a high-paid, high-profile club, and the second-division teams have a right to dislike them.

  Tonight’s game is a pitching mismatch, D-Lowe versus the young Kurt Ainsworth. This is one main strength of the 2004 Sox. Over the last two years, Lowe’s won more games that any AL pitcher except the Jays’ Roy Halladay. Part of the reason: last year he led the league in run support, with over 7 runs a start.

  Ainsworth looks okay through the first, getting Ortiz and Manny (batting cleanup again). In the second he has runners on first and second with two out when Pokey hits a hopper to the hole. Tejada nabs it cleanly. He’s moving toward third, and looks to Mora for the force, but Mora—not having the instincts of a third baseman—is lagging behind the runner, and Tejada has to plant and throw across his body to first. After hesitating, there’s no way he’s getting Pokey, so now the bases are loaded. Johnny D slaps a single to left. Sveum, bizarrely, sends Bellhorn. The throw beats him by twenty feet, but comes in on a short-hop and Javy Lopez can’t get a handle on it. 2–0, second and third. Bill Mueller hits a single to center. This time the trailing runner is Johnny, and he scores easily.