by Stephen King
The Apprentice ends just in time for us to catch the biggest play of the game. It’s the bottom of the tenth, bases loaded and two out for Bill Mueller. He lifts one high and deep to left-center that looks like it’ll scrape the Monster. I’m up, cheering, thinking this is the game—that we’ll have a little cushion going into the Yankee series—but the wind knocks the ball down. Bigbie is coming over from left, and Matos from center, on a collision course. Bigbie cuts in front, Matos behind, making the grab on the track in front of the scoreboard, and that’s the inning.
Arroyo starts the top of the eleventh against Tejada. He hangs a curve, and Tejada hits it off the foot of the light tower on the Monster for his first homer of the year. 8–7 O’s. In a long and ugly sequence, they pile on four more. We go one-two-three, and that’s the game, a painful, bullpen-clearing, four-and-a-half-hour extra-inning loss very much like last week’s in Baltimore. Not the way we wanted to go into tomorrow’s opener against the Yanks, and not how I wanted to go to bed—late and pissed-off.
April 16th
The Sox are unveiling a statue of Ted Williams today outside Gate B—the gate no one uses, way back on Van Ness Street, behind the right-field concourse. The statue’s part of an ongoing beautification effort. We’ve already widened the sidewalks and planted trees to try to disguise the fact that Van Ness is essentially a gritty little backstreet with more than its share of broken glass. I’m surprised there’s not a statue of Williams already, the way the Faithful venerate him. During the Pedro-Halladay game, I chanced across a rolling wooden podium with a bronze plaque inlaid on top honoring Ted; it looked like something from the sixties, coated with antique green milk paint. It was pushed against a wall in the hallway inside Gate A next to the old electric organ no one ever plays. I’d never seen it before, and wondered why it was shoved to the side. In Pittsburgh there was a statue of Honus Wagner by the entrance of Forbes Field, and when the Bucs moved to Three Rivers, it moved with them, to be joined by a statue of Clemente, and now, at PNC Park, one of Willie Stargell. I wonder how long it will take the Sox to commission one of Yaz.
Because the game’s on Fox, the start time’s been pushed back to 8:05, giving me some extra time to deal with Friday rush hour. All the way up 84 and across the Mass Pike I see a lot of New York and New Jersey plates. When I pull into the lot behind Harvard Med Center a good hour before the gates open, it’s already half-filled.
I head for Lansdowne, but BP hasn’t started yet. There are some Yankee fans outside the Cask ’n Flagon having their pictures taken—skinny college girls in pink Yankee T-shirts and hats with a hefty dude in an A-Rod jersey. I pass a woman wearing a T-shirt that says THIS IS YOUR BRAIN (above a Red Sox logo), THIS IS YOUR BRAIN ON DRUGS (and a Yankees logo). TV crews are wandering around doing stand-ups, shooting B-roll of people eating by the Sausage Guy. Above, banner planes and helicopters crisscross.
I walk down Lansdowne past the nightclubs, figuring I’ll go around the long way and check out the statue. Fuel is playing the Avalon Ballroom; their fans are sitting against the wall to be the first in, and seem disgusted that their good time has been hijacked by a bunch of dumb jocks. When I turn the corner onto Ipswich, I find another line of young people waiting at the entrance of a parking lot. Everyone has an ID on a necklace, as if they’re all part of a tour group. Then I notice the yellow Aramark shirts hidden under their jackets. It’s the vendors, queuing up so they can get ready for a big night. It’s already cold in the shadows, and I pity the guys trying to move ice cream.
I expect the Williams statue to be ringed by fans taking pictures or touching it for luck, the way they do in Pittsburgh with Clemente and Stargell (if you reach up you can balance a lucky penny on Willie’s elbow), but it’s just standing there alone while a line waits about thirty feet away for day-of-game tickets.
It’s uninspired and uninspiring, a tall man stooping to set his oversized cap on a little bronze kid’s head. It’s not that Ted didn’t love kids (his work with the Jimmy Fund is a great legacy), it’s just that I expected something more dynamic for the greatest hitter that ever lived. In Pittsburgh, Clemente’s just finished his swing and is about to toss the bat away and dig for first; he’s on his toes, caught in motion, and there’s a paradoxical lightness to the giant structure that conveys Clemente’s speed and grace. Stargell’s cocked and waiting for his pitch, his bat held high; you can almost see him waggling the barrel back and forth behind his head. This Williams is static and dull and carries none of The Kid’s personality. He could be any Norman Rockwell shmoo making nice with the little tyke.
I take a couple of pictures anyway, then head back to Gate E to wait for my friend Lowry. Before a big game like this, people are handing out all sorts of crummy free stuff, and I accept a Globe just to have something to read (okay, and for the poster of Nomar). I buy a bag of peanuts and lurk at the corrugated door, and when Lowry comes, we’re first in line and then the first in and the first to get a ball, tossed to me by David McCarty in left. I snag a grounder by Kapler, and later an errant warm-up throw by Yanks coach (and former Pirate prospect) Willie Randolph—picking the neat short-hop out of sheer reflex.
A-Rod comes out to warm, and the fans boo. Some migrate over from other sections just to holler at him while he plays long toss, chucking the ball from the third-base line out to deep right-center. “Hey, lend me a hundred bucks, huh?” “How you liking third?” “Hey, A-Rod, break a leg, and I mean that.”
We boo Jeter when he steps in to hit. And Giambi (“Bal-co”) and Sheffield (“Ballll-coooo”).
The rest of the Yanks are friendly enough. Jose Contreras and Kevin Brown banter with the fans; even hothead Jorge Posada jokes with us. When Mussina comes by and chats and smiles, someone calls, “You’re the good Yankee, Mike.”
Miguel Cairo, one of the last Yankees to bat, smokes a grounder down the line. It’s mine. I catch it off-center, and it bends the fingers of my mitt back. The ball knocks off the wall and rolls away, out of reach, gone forever. It’s a play I’ll make 99 times out of 100, even if it was hit hard.
“Hey,” Lowry says, “you’ve got three.”
Yeah, I say, I know, but it’s always the one that gets away that you remember.
We stop by El Tiante’s for an autographed picture, saying hey to Luis and picking up some Cuban sandwiches, then fight the crowd to reach our seats. The choke point’s right behind home, where the concourse narrows to feed the first ramp to the stands. The crush is worse than Opening Day, and I think they’ve got to fix it somehow before something very bad happens.
The tide of people separates us. I find Lowry at our seats just as the anthem begins. As always, I’m overwhelmed by how good these seats are. One section over, one row in front of us, is the governor of Massachusetts, Mitt Romney.
The Yanks send Kenny Lofton, Jeter and A-Rod to face Wake in the first. The boos grow louder with each at-bat, peaking with A-Rod, who gets a standing excoriation—something only Clemens has managed over the years. “Gay-Rod,” some wags are chanting. When Tim’s first pitch is a strike, the crowd explodes, as if we’ve won.
Johnny opens with a hopper to first that hits Giambi in the middle and gets through him for an E. “Bal-co!” Vazquez has Bill Mueller 0-2, but gets impatient, aiming a fastball that Billy cranks into the Sox bullpen, and we’re up 2–0. Manny hits a slicing liner down the right-field line that disappears from view. The ump signals fair, then twirls one finger in the air for a homer. Somehow the Yanks are able to relay the ball in—they’re arguing that it never went out. We don’t get a replay. (Later, I hear that the ball hit the top of the wall and caromed back in off Sheffield, so it wasn’t a homer.) With two down and Ellis Burks on second, Doug Mirabelli grounds one to Jeter. It’s an easy play, but Jeter comes up and lets it through the five-hole and into left, and with two outs Burks scores easily.
Posada gets one back with a solo homer in the second. In the fourth, Mirabelli—who, like Wake, is only making his second start—takes Vazquez
deep on the first pitch. 5–1.
A great moment in the sixth when the Yanks try a double steal (or is it a blown hit-and-run?). Sheffield doesn’t make contact, and A-Rod’s meat at third. The crowd taunts him into the dugout.
It’s 6–2 with two out in the eighth when Giambi lofts a fly to Manny in left. “Good inning,” I holler to Doug Mirabelli, heading off, and then I see the ball glance off Manny’s glove and bounce in the grass. He Charlie Browned it!
I look around to verify that this has actually happened. No one else can believe it either.
Things get a little shaky when Sheffield and Posada both work walks to load the bases. “A home run here and the game’s tied,” a neighbor says. I know where this is coming from, but come on, we’re up 6–2 with four outs to go. Have some faith.
Embree gets Matsui, and the Yanks never threaten again, and when Jeter makes the last out and the PA plays “Dirty Water,” all the different TV crews hustle to set up their tall director’s chairs for the postgame shows.
April 17th
Steve and I have been going back and forth about the Yankees’ place in our cosmos. I’ve been trying to argue that they’ve only gotten in our way a few times across our overall history. In the fifties and sixties (besides the Impossible Dream year), we were so bad that it didn’t matter. ’78’s a fluke, and people forget that after our big fold in August we came back and won our last eight to gain the tie for the division. The Winfield-Mattingly Yanks never gave us any problems; were, in fact, massive chokers, consistently finishing second to Toronto, Baltimore and us. In ’86 we stood in our own way (or Calvin Schiraldi did). In ’99, we were lucky to get by Cleveland, and last year we pulled a rabbit out of our hat to beat Oakland, and were playing on the road the whole time. Plus we took enough out of the Yanks that they had nothing left for the Marlins. We were their stumbling block, beating them twice at the Stadium, putting their weaknesses on display. All the Marlins had to do was mop them up.
SK: Your rationalizations can’t stand up to the killer graphics Fox put up on the screen last night. I’ll get the facts for my little Yankees-Sox piece (and no, it hasn’t always been the Yankees, just the Dent home run, the Boston Massacre, and last year…plus the Boston-Yankees all-time numbers, which are all New York). But while we’ve been starving, New York has been feasting. How many consecutive years have they gone to the postseason now? Twelve? Come on, ya gotta hate ’em! Fear ’em and hate ’em!
SO: You forget—my roots are in Pittsburgh, and Maz’s homer is our Excalibur. We not only slew the beast, we broke their damn hearts, and the Sox can do it too. Shoot, if we really wanted to win one, we could go the ’97 Marlins’ route, or the 2001 D-Backs’. We’re almost there but not quite. But that’s not an honorable way. That’s why all the Steinbrenner titles don’t count. The last time the Yanks really won anything was 1962.
SK: “Maz’s homer is our Excalibur.” Mine too. I LOVED that series. Remember that Baltimore chop that hit Tony Kubek in the Adam’s apple? Of course you do, you devil, you.
SO: As Bob Prince used to say, “We had ’em all the way!”
SK: The game last night was the perfect antidote (except for Scott Williamson in the eighth…PRETTY SCARY, HALLOWEEN MARY). A measure of payback for Tim-MAY Wakefield after the heartbreaking home run to Aaron Boone. One game down, eighteen to go.
* * *
One luxury of having two bona fide aces is the constant possibility of a marquee matchup. Last Saturday it was Pedro-Halladay, this Saturday it’s Schilling-Mussina. With the watering down of pitching talent around the league, these games are rare, and I’d be at Fenway except that I have to tape an interview for Canadian TV.
Moose is rocky from the start, and Schilling’s solid. Bill Mueller goes deep, and Manny. It’s 4–1 in the seventh when Schilling’s 121st pitch freezes Jeter for the first out—and suddenly here comes Francona from the dugout. Like Pedro against Toronto, Schilling looks around, surprised someone is warming. He turns his head and swears, but gives up the ball and gets a big hand. A few minutes later the camera shows him in the dugout, going over his charts. Another power move by Francona? Or just notice that he won’t be like Grady? I think it’s no coincidence that he pulled both aces at home during high-profile wins.
Johnny doubles in an insurance run in the eighth, and the Yanks get a cheapie in the ninth, but this one’s over. Schilling beats Moose and we’ve taken the first two. On Extra Innings, Tom Caron says, “So the worst we can do is split.” Why think of the worst, especially right now? We’ve got D-Lowe going against Contreras tomorrow. It’s this kind of fatalism—from the Sox’s own network!—that drives me crazy. You never hear this kind of hedging from the Yankees’ YES-men.
April 18th
We get going early so we can be the first ones on the Monster, but as we’re driving up I read in the Sunday paper that there’s no BP today. While it doesn’t mention it anywhere, and even the Sox ticket office and the guys who let us in through Gate C aren’t sure where we’re supposed to go, it’s On-Field Photo Day. We take a right toward the stairs up to the Monster and notice the garage door to center’s open. We fall in behind a staff member escorting two kids and then we’re on the warning track in the bright sunshine. A yellow rope cordons off the grass, but we can walk all the way around to the dugout, where Schilling is sitting, being interviewed by a writer.
The PA tells us the plan. The Sox will come out and walk all the way around so we can take photos. Each player has a handler to make sure they don’t sign autographs. Still, I’ve got to try. “No, I’ll get in trouble,” Bill Mueller says, like a little kid.
The guys are nice, shaking hands and posing. I get Steph with hitting coach Ron “Papa Jack” Jackson and Keith Foulke. Trudy’s being crowded and can’t get clean shots, so she moves out to the warning track in right where it’s empty. Johnny Pesky’s sitting in the dugout with Andrew, and I toss him a ball to sign. I notice Manny on the other end of the dugout, signing, and make my way over there, scissoring over the wall and then high-stepping over the railings between sections. The mob around him is packed tight, but I finally get through and have him sign my ball.
The Monster seats are a dream—a counter for your stuff, a swiveling barstool and room behind it to stand or lean against the wall. We’re in the second row. In the first row, there are new signs that read: WARNING: FOR YOUR SAFETY PLEASE DO NOT REACH OVER WALL. The one drawback is that we’re a long way from the plate. It’s a little breezy, but when the wind is blowing right you can smell the burgers grilling. The sun’s out, Lowry’s with us, and when Kevin Millar doubles into the corner in the first, scoring Bill Mueller, the day seems ideal.
The pitching matchup’s in our favor, or should be. Contreras is their fourth starter, and a weak link. The worry is that Lowe, working on ten days’ rest, will be too strong and leave the ball up. In the third that’s exactly what happens. After he walks A-Rod, he gives up a single to Giambi, a double to Sheffield, a single to Matsui and a double to Posada—all of them down the line in left. Lowe strikes out Travis Lee, but Enrique Wilson singles to right, scoring Matsui to make it 4–1. Jeter grounds out, scoring Posada, then Bernie Williams doubles down the left-field line. That’s it for Lowe: 22/3 innings, 8 hits, 7 runs.
The Sox get two back in the bottom of the inning, chasing Contreras. We should have more except for a blown call. With two on and two out, Tek slaps one down the first-base line that Travis Lee has to dive to spear. Reliever and ex-Sock Paul Quantrill beats Tek to the bag, but Lee has trouble getting the ball out of his glove, and by the time the throw arrives, Quantrill’s well past the base. The ump punches Tek out to end the inning, bringing Francona from the dugout to argue, though by then it’s pointless.
Also during this inning, the Yanks haul out their Cuban National Team tactics, slowing down the pace of the game in the middle of our rally to quiet the crowd and throw off the hitters’ timing. Posada visits the mound. They send the trainer out in midcount, as if the pitcher has s
ome injury. He doesn’t, but because the trainer accompanies Torre, the visit doesn’t count as a visit by the manager. They send the pitching coach. They change pitchers. They have an infield conference. They send the pitching coach again in midcount. The pitcher himself wanders behind the mound to stall. They change pitchers again. Technically it’s only semilegal, a judgment call with the league’s new rules requiring umps to pick up the pace of the game. A good crew chief wouldn’t put up with this nonsense.
It stays 7–3. There’s not much action, and the crowd’s grumpy and distracted. From time to time the bleachers rise and roar, signaling a fight. The cops haul some Yankee fans away, and everyone cheers, “Yank-ees suck! Yank-ees suck!” In the seventh, Tom Gordon comes in to some moderate boos, but it’s hard to get too excited, down by four runs. The sole highlight of the late innings is an awkward sliding catch by Sheffield along the right-field line. The crowd salutes him with the old Atlanta tomahawk chop, with the finger attached.
We lose 7–3. It was basically a one-inning game, over after the third. The loss can’t ruin the day—walking on the field, seeing the guys, sitting on the Monster—but it makes for a quiet ride home. And tomorrow’s their matchup: Kevin Brown against Bronson Arroyo. Okay, now who’s the fatalist?
SK: Not quite s’good t’day, and with KBrown tomorrow, the Yanks look good for the split, curse them.
SO: It was a dull game, even up on the Monster. The wind was blowing in hard, and knocked down two balls from Manny that would have been gone any other day.
Saw the new Williams statue by Gate B—pure schmaltz. He deserves better.
SK: Yep. Putting his hat on the little kiddie’s head. Cute. And, out of the side of his mouth: “Now get outta my way, you little rat-bastard.”
