by Stephen King
The Yanks are, I should add, something of an anomaly: the only team against which I actively root (it was true for a while of Cleveland in the early nineties, but no more). And it seems to me that the Yankees almost have to have this third game, not to keep from falling five games off the pace early (although five really is quite a few, at any point in the season), but because it’s the hated Red Sox and they are at home.
In the third inning, the story still seems to be young Vazquez, who gets six of the first nine outs by way of the K. Then, in the top of the fourth, Mark Bellhorn, batting today in the two-hole, walks (because that’s what Mark Bellhorn does). After Ortiz strikes out looking—number seven for Vazquez—Manny Ramirez comes up. After getting ahead of Manny 0-2, Vazquez attempts to waste a curveball. He wastes it out over the plate, and…see ya. Over the Yankee bullpen and into the Bleacher Zone. We’re up 2–0 in the middle innings.
Bottom of the fifth, Yankees threatening with runners on second and third, two out and Jeter (0 for 23) at the plate. Takes called strike one, outside corner; chases a fastball way up and out of the zone for strike two. Pedro sets, fires, teases Jeter outside, 1-2. Pedro’s ready to go again but Jeter steps out, commanding right hand up to the ump in the old familiar gesture. Now he’s back in, and Pedro immediately strikes him outlooking with high, hard cheese. Jeter is 0 for 24, and the Yankees once more fail with two in scoring position (before Jeter, Enrique Wilson, who usually beats Pedro like a drum, popped out to Pokey).
Sweet!
In the sixth, A-Rod doubles with one out and goes to third on a Giambi groundout (Cesar Crespo in short right field—an almost comical overshift—makes the play on Giambi). Rodriguez, at least, has begun to come around (his average has crept up to something like .252), but it does the Yankees no good; Gary Sheffield fouls out to Varitek, and it’s still 2–0 Sox, going into the lates.
Pedro’s done after seven: his game to win, the bullpen’s to lose. The bullpen hasn’t given up a run in twentysome innings, but now Williamson’s on, and he’s a scary guy. Here’s Jeter again. He tries to bunt; no joy. Fouls one away, and it’s 0-2, a place Derek has gotten all too familiar with just lately. Let’s see how Williamson plays this. He throws a low fastball, a true waste pitch, but Jeter goes fishing and strikes out. This time the crowd does boo, and even the resolutely upbeat Yankee announcers finally take notice. “Like booing Santa Claus,” one of them remarks reprovingly.
It’s the bottom of the ninth and last call for the Yankees. Here’s Alex Rodriguez, and it’s still Williamson to face him—no Keith Foulke, a little surprising. Williamson runs the count full on A-Rod, who has 7 of the last 22 Yankee hits; so much for that slump. Rodriguez, after fouling off one 3-2 pitch, grounds out, third to first. Now Jason Giambi grounds to Pokey Reese. Two out. Here’s Gary Sheffield, who has one of the Yankees’ four hits today. This time he strikes out, and suddenly—incredibly—the Red Sox have taken six of seven from the AL champs. The camera sneaks a look into their dugout, and the look on Jeter’s face is one of pure amazement. And it’s justified; this is the first time the Red Sox have beaten the Yankees six out of the first seven since 1913.
Sweet!
SK: I saw all the games and got six pages on the sweep in my newly inaugurated Sox diary—gloat-gloat. What it boils down to for the Yankees is that if they don’t start playing pretty soon, it’s gonna get late early and be lites-out in August. Remember when I said I liked them for third place?
SO: Gloating is such an ugly word for this creamy and delicious feeling. I think the Yanks’ swoon will just make George bust out the wallet earlier for a starter or two. Lieber’s still a ways away from filling the five slot, and Contreras looks terrible. Using Vazquez on three days’ rest—even though he threw well—is a desperate move on ol’ Joe’s part. And after the day off tomorrow, they’ve got to face the A’s three big aces. Who’s going to throw that Thursday game—Vazquez on three days again? They’re screwed. We trusted Bronson with the ball twice against them and he came through. And BK’s not far from being ready.
Your third-place pick looks entirely possible. As expected, we’re getting quality starts and our pen’s much better, and those O’s are pounding the ball. The Yanks right now are suffering from the revenge of Pettitte, Clemboy and Boomer.
April 26th
Tonight’s the premiere of the Red Sox movie: Still, We Believe. Alyssa, my former student, has lined up a press pass for me, and while I’ve put together a short list of questions and fitted fresh batteries in the minicassette recorder, I’ve still got mixed feelings about crossing the line between fan and journalist.
We get to the Loews on the Common right on time, check in at the press table and claim a spot behind the velvet rope next to the red carpet. I’ve never had a press pass before, and I have no idea what secret powers it gives me. Outside, WEEI is doing a live feed from the street. It’s raining and cold out, and the crowd’s thin. As more people filter in, we’re boxed and jostled by TV cameras. NESN’s well represented, ESPN2, NECN, all the Boston channels. Nothing’s happening, but there’s some serious jockeying for position. Johnny Damon and Kevin Millar are definites, but those are the only two names mentioned. I’m hoping for Eck, maybe Yaz, Tim Wakefield, Pokey Reese.
Wally the Green Monster shows up in a tux, mugging for the cameras. “Hey Wally, who are you wearing?”
The fans featured in the film arrive, and the cameramen blind them with their lights, the sports anchors do their stand-ups. I’m not really interested in the fan-stars. I know I’ll get their stories from the movie anyway.
Tom Caron stops at the press table, and Dan Shaughnessy. Big Sam Horn signs a ball for me—something a real journalist would never ever ask him to do—and there’s Tom Werner and John Henry and Larry Lucchino, and Luis Tiant. Everyone but the players.
Outside, rented searchlights twirl across the night sky. It’s nearly show-time when Kevin Millar arrives in a vintage Western print shirt, jeans and shiny black cowboy boots. He smiles as he shakes hands and signs, doing stand-up after stand-up as he inches down the red carpet. I bypass the clot of reporters and set up at an open spot a little farther down.
I catch him just as he’s bouncing out. He’s trailed by a guy my age dressed head to toe in Sox paraphernalia, with his huge, naked beer gut bulging out and painted with the Red Sox logo and STILL WE BELIEVE. WEEI has judged him the most outrageous fan and given him a ticket to the show. He shakes Millar’s hand, pleased to meet him.
“Kevin,” I say—and he talks to me just because I’ve got this recorder; it has power, like a gun—“what were you like as a fan, when you were younger?”
“Like this guy.”
“You’re kind of the official fan of the Sox with the Cowboy Up, but who was your team?”
“Dodgers. Grew up in Los Angeles. Dodgers were my team.”
“Favorite player?”
“Steve Garvey.”
“You wear the jersey?”
“Never had a jersey, but I was a big fan of the Dodgers. I’d go to a lot of games.”
“Listen a lot on the radio?”
“Vin Scully.”
“Ever get the autographs?”
“Went and got the autographs, did it all.”
“Are you still a fan now? Can you be a fan now that you’re a player?”
“No doubt about it.”
“Are you still a Dodger fan?”
“Still a Dodger fan, still a fan of baseball.”
“You check their box score every morning?”
“No, I don’t check ’em, but I pull for ’em when I see ’em.”
“So you hope to see ’em this fall?”
“That’d be nice.”
And that’s it, I thank him and he’s gone to the next mike, the next camera. I’ve definitely crossed the line with my impersonation of a journalist, but, as a fan, it’s my duty to take advantage of whatever access I can get, for the sheer thrill of it.
Johnny Damon’s not here yet, but
they’re going to start the movie, so we crowd into the theater with Kevin Millar and the owners and everyone else. Down front, a radio team introduces all the Sox VIPs, who stand in turn to receive their applause. When they call Johnny Damon’s name, Big Sam stands up as a joke. Finally the filmmaker, Paul Doyle, thanks everyone who helped and says, “The fans are the Red Sox,” a sentiment which seems true even before he presents his evidence. When I was talking to a real journalist earlier, I mentioned that I’ve only been a Sox fan for twenty-five years, so I’m new. I was here before Clemens, and I’ll be here long after Pedro. I’ve got a no-cut contract.
Steve’s in the film—briefly, a shot of him chatting with John Henry before the ill-fated season opener in Tampa Bay. That was the one Chad Fox blew, and while the movie doesn’t have the time to tell the rest of the story, after we dumped Fox he went on, along with former Sox closer Ugie Urbina, to defeat the Yanks and become a World Champion.
In trying to squeeze the whole season (and eight very different fans’ lives) into two hours, the film can’t connect all the dots. What strikes me most are all the Sox from last year’s squad who are gone: Shea Hillenbrand, Todd Walker, Brandon Lyon, Damian Jackson, John Burkett, Jeff Suppan, Scott Sauerbeck and of course manager Grady Little, who, since we’re in a room with the people who fired him, gets laughed at more than I find necessary. We witness Theo informing our number one prospect Freddy Sanchez that he’s being traded to Pittsburgh (for Suppan and Sauerbeck, neither of whom panned out).
The main tension and source of comedy in the movie is the tug-of-war between hope and pessimism. Angry Bill, a diehard who’s become a fixture on local call-in shows, vows that he’ll never believe in the Sox again, and sees disaster everywhere—until we take the A’s. Fireman Steve Craven is more laid-back. “We’ll get ’em tomorrow,” he says, and caps the film, after the disaster of Game 7, with his observation that all the losing will make finally winning it all that much sweeter, “don’t you think?”
It’s a fun film, but there’s so much missing. Where’s Bill James and his ridiculous bullpen-by-committee idea? Where’s BK giving us the finger? Where’s Roger’s last win in Fenway? Where’s Todd Walker’s 2-out, 2-strike shot against Baltimore? Even the intricacies of the playoff games are glossed over, so while it gets some of the emotion of being a Sox fan, it still just skims the surface, and being a Sox fan is about total immersion.
The after-party at Felt is crowded and loud, but there’s free Sam Adams, good hors d’oeuvres, and, for the brave, Fenway Franks served out of actual vendors’ steamers. Beside us, Luis Tiant is chowing down. I want to talk to Larry Lucchino, maybe interview him about growing up a Pirates fan in Pittsburgh, but he’s lost in the crowd, and then when I see him, he’s on his way out. We’ve got to get going too. Tomorrow’s a school day, it’s raining like hell and we’ve got a long drive.
On the way home, Trudy says she was disappointed that only Kevin Millar showed. I am too, but big props to Mr. Millar, who did it all cheerfully. In his business a night off’s a cherished rarity. I know I get on him for his lack of speed in the outfield, but, as with that difficult assignment, tonight he stepped up when no one else did.
April 27th
Ellis Burks’s knee is hurting him, and his .133 batting average is hurting us, so he’s on the DL and the Dauber’s coming up from Pawtucket. In ten games there, he hit .350 with 5 homers and 11 RBIs, including a walk-off shot. “In baseball, you’ve got to keep plugging—until forever, I guess.” Is there any wonder why we love this guy?
A strange front must be moving over New England, because it’s been sunny all day here, but up in Boston it’s pouring. To cheer us up during the rain delay, NESN shows clips of Nomar and BK working out at Fenway earlier today. Nomar’s in shorts, taking grounders at half-speed and then talking with Mia Hamm over the low wall along third. BK’s also in shorts, playing catch in the outfield grass; you think of him as this whip of a kid, but his thighs are massive and cut like early Arnold. Don and Jerry make it sound like he’ll be our number five guy and Arroyo will go to the pen.
A good hour and a half after game time, the Sox call it.
April 28th
The team’s so excited about BK’s rehab that he’s going to skip his last minor league start and pitch the first game of tomorrow’s day-night doubleheader. Schilling will still go tonight, and Lowe tomorrow night, meaning Wake is sacrificing his start, something he’s done throughout his long tenure with us, unselfish of him, and extremely valuable, giving his manager more flexibility.
Though he’s running and taking infield, the team says Nomar’s still at least two weeks away.
April 29th
After a rainout on the 27th, Schilling (and the bullpen) tossed another gem last night, beating Tampa Bay, 6–0. Tampa Bay only got a single runner as far as third base, and while I like the D-Rays (I sometimes think of the Red Sox as my baseball wife and Not-So-Sweet Lou Piniella’s Devil Rays as my baseball mistress), I have to admit they are reverting to type after a hopeful start. But of course the Red Sox’s 13-6 start is also part of a pattern I have observed over the years; call it BoSox Happy Hoop Days. The way it works is simple enough: the Red Sox have a tendency to tear up the American League until the NBA playoffs wrap up; after that, more often than not they sputter. And leave us face it, a two-game lead over Baltimore and a four-game lead over the Yankees, while better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick, really ain’t all that much. Of course it beats being behind, but I think I’ll wait until after July Fourth to decide whether or not Schilling and Company are for real.
Footnote A on today’s entry: Our Mr. Kim, he of the restless middle finger, is back from sore-shoulder woes (and a stint in Pawtucket) today. He’s supposed to be limited to seventy-five pitches, after which Tim Wakefield will come in to relieve. Damn! It’s a day-night doubleheader, and I was kind of hoping Timmy would pull a Wilbur Wood and start both games (nor am I joking).
Footnote B on today’s entry: Although Derek Jeter’s hitless streak has now reached 0 for 32, tying a Yankee record (the immortal Jimmy Wynn, in 1977), the Bombers beat the Oakland A’s for the second straight night. They’ve only picked up half a game on Boston (because of that rainout), but the wins suggest that Boston’s weekend sweep in the Bronx mayhave had more to do with Red Sox pitching, defense, and the bat of Manny Ramirez than it did with any Yankee funk. It may be too early to declare the Red Sox the class of the AL East, but it may not be too early to at least suspect that this year they out class the New York Yankees.
I check the standings to see how many games up we are on the O’s (2) and discover we’ve got the best record in baseball. I think that’s got to be wrong, since we opened 3-4, but no, only the Twins and the pitching-rich Marlins are anywhere near us.
Game 1 is BK versus Victor Zambrano, who’s had some success against us. Dauber’s starting at first base, and on the first play of the game lets a grounder slip under his glove for an E. Welcome back, Dauber.
It’s a brilliant spring day, sunny, in the mid-seventies. Because this is a rainout of a night game, the Sox have to let ticket-holders sit in Sections 34 and 35 in dead center, which normally for day games are sealed off with a black tarp for the hitter’s backdrop. The Sox have solved the problem by giving everyone sitting in the sections a T-shirt the same forest green as the seats.
Both pitchers are throwing well, but the defenses behind them are scuffling, as if the idea of playing an extra game today doesn’t agree with either team. Bill Mueller and Doug Mirabelli lose a foul pop in the sun; it drops not between them but ten feet to the side. Later, Billy and Cesar Crespo go back for a short fly in left; Manny comes racing in, calling them off, almost collides with Crespo and drops the ball.
A play you rarely see in the second: Jose Cruz Jr.’s leading off first when Tino Martinez hits a screamer right at him. Cruz doesn’t have time to go right or left, he just ducks. The liner skims off his back, barely nicking him, but Dauber points to let the ump kn
ow. The first-base ump says it never touched him, bringing Francona out to argue—at which time, without consulting anyone, the second-base ump calls Cruz out. Go Blue!
Kim looks sharp, getting groundouts with the ball down, then climbing the ladder with a good rising fastball. I saw his first start for the Sox last year in Pittsburgh, an efficient win, and he looks much the same. He’s up to 70 pitches after five, and finishes the inning with a strikeout. As he walks off, the fans stand—remarkable, since this is the first time he’s pitched since giving us the finger. Five innings, one hit, no runs. Come home, Byung-Hyun, all is forgiven.
Zambrano’s cruising too, striking out the side in the fourth, but in the fifth, with a man on, he gets behind David Ortiz 3-0. Zambrano obviously hasn’t read the scouting report, because David’s always got the green light. He plants a meatball in the sea of green shirts in Section 35.
It’s all we need, as Wake comes on to baffle the D-Rays for two more innings, then Timlin, then Embree. The final’s 4–0, our third straight shutout. The pen hasn’t been scored on in over 30 innings.
We get on the road to Game 2 just as Game 1’s ending. We’ve got a table up in the new right-field roof terrace, and Steve’s dugout seats. Trudy has papers to grade, so Caitlin and her friend Lindsay will take the good seats first and we’ll switch after the fourth.
