Faithful

by Stephen King

  Tonight it’s Lowe versus Jarrod Washburn out in Anaheim, a 10:05 start. I’ve been jonesing for some ball since last Friday, and plan on staying up for it. Last time I did this, Vladimir Guerrero had nine RBIs; I figure this has got to be better. The Yanks have already beaten Detroit, so—again—we need this one.

  From the start there are problems. Manny’s hamstring’s bothering him again, so Francona’s moved him to DH, Ortiz to first (scratching McCarty) and Millar to left—a shift that leaves us weaker at two positions. Unless his quad’s still iffy, Trot’s sitting because Washburn’s a lefty (weak, since even Dauber was allowed to hit against lefties in 2002), so we’ve got slightly better defense in right. Kapler proves it in the third, cutting off a ball toward the line, then spinning and gunning speedy Chone Figgins at second. But Millar just can’t cover the territory in left. A pop fly down the line falls between him, Bill Mueller and Nomar—just foul. The batter singles on the next pitch, and even though he doesn’t score, it means Lowe has to get four outs, and his pitch count is climbing. He’s throwing well, though, not walking people, fighting to the end of every at-bat.

  In the fourth, with first and second and two down, at the end of a long battle on a full count, Figgins lofts a similar pop-up down the line. Bill Mueller goes hard, Nomar trailing him. Billy realizes he’s not going to get there and looks to Millar, who’s pulled up, running at half-speed, and by the time Kevin realizes it’s his ball, he can’t get there. The ball drops a foot inside the line, and Bengie Molina, who’s been jogging home out of sheer habit, crosses the plate, and the runners end up on second and third. The TV shows Millar back at his position. I’ve been pacing the room, stopping in front of the set for each pitch. Now I lean down and jab at the screen like Lewis Black. “Why do you suck so much?”

  Shaken, on the next batter Lowe steps off the back of the rubber with the wrong foot, balking. Mike Scioscia’s up and out of the dugout, pointing. It should bring in a run, but the ump doesn’t call it, and we sneak out of a jam.

  In the top of the fifth, we get the run right back, but in the bottom of the inning, Lowe tires. With Darin Erstad on second, Molina singles to left. Millar has the ball in his glove before Erstad rounds third, and Erstad’s just coming off a leg injury, but Millar’s a first baseman, and his throw is weak and low, bouncing three times as Erstad slips past Tek. Embree’s been up for a while, and Lowe’s over 100 pitches, so he’s done. He pitched well enough for a quality start. If he has a real left fielder, the game’s still 1–1.

  Embree should be well rested, but can’t muscle a fastball by Adam Kennedy, who singles. Little David Eckstein, who has no home runs, misses one by five feet, doubling off the wall in left-center, scoring Molina. Figgins singles to center, and soon it’s 6–1. It’s midnight, and I think about going to bed, but hang in, only to see Curtis Leskanic groove one to Erstad for a two-run shot. We’re down seven runs and dredging the bottom of the bullpen, while the Angels can always call on twin closers K-Rod and Troy Percival, so good night, nurse.

  In bed I’m still pissed off. It’s a demoralizing loss, with little good to point to, and against a club that—if we’re really contenders—we need to beat. We’re now 0-3 against them, and we’re plainly a sub-.500 club on the road. We’re eight back. I try not to overreact. Part of it is that I’d been waiting so long to see them play, and they played badly. It’s just one game, and it’s a four-game set. Pedro’s going tomorrow. The season’s long. Breathe.

  July 16th

  I must admit the second half of the season got off to an inauspicious start last night in Anaheim. The Red Sox, who rarely do well on the West Coast (at least during the regular season), put on a particularly vileshow against the Angels, losing 8–1. Derek Lowe, although victimized by poor defense behind him (not for the first time this year, either), did not exactly cover himself with glory, either. In other news, the Sox sent down the on-base machine known as the Greek God of Walks in favor of a middle reliever whose last name is Martinez. Any resemblance to the Sox starter of the same name simply does not exist.

  This could be a long road trip.

  SK: And here’s how we start the second half: by losing to the Angels (big) and sending on-base machine Kevin Youkilis back to triple-A to make room for a mediocre pitcher. The conventional wisdom once more clamps down. You build an expensive multimillion-dollar racing machine and give it to a clodhopping middle manager with a cheek full o’ chaw. This is dopey-ball, not moneyball.

  Disgusted in Maine,

  Steve

  SO: I feared the vengeance of the disappointed fiend.—Franconastein

  Now the papers have Nomar going to the Cubs for prospects we then ship to Arizona for Randy Jo. Seeing as we’re eight games out, all this talk seems frivolous and off-target. We just need to play better. Now.

  But the All-Star break is a good time to panic. Houston, right at .500 despite signing Clemens, Pettitte, Jeff Kent and Carlos Beltran, fires ex-Sox skipper Jimy Williams. Seattle, dead last in the West, continues its fire sale of high-priced veterans, tagging John Olerud, one of the best hitters of the era, for reassignment—meaning, essentially, they’re cutting him, hoping a contender like the Sox will want his stick (and Gold Glove at first) and pick up his salary.

  Tonight’s another 10:05 start, and despite my history, I decide to stay up and watch this one to the end. The Yanks have already lost to Detroit, Mike Maroth one-hitting them, so we have a chance to make up a game. Manny’s not starting, and—one day too late—Francona’s figured out the right lineup: Trot in right, Kapler in left, Ortiz D’Hing, Millar at first, Pokey at second. It’s the same lineup Trudy proposed last night before quitting on the game. “How much is he getting paid?” she asks.

  Kelvim Escobar’s throwing 95, Pedro 94. Home-plate ump Matt Hollowell is squeezing both of them, and Nomar takes advantage of it, leading off the second with a first-pitch homer to left-center when Escobar tries to get ahead with a fastball down the pipe. Here’s how much Hollowell’s squeezing them: in the bottom of the inning, Pedro issues back-to-back walks to their number six and seven hitters.

  With the tight strike zone, both pitchers’ counts are rising. In the bottom of the fourth, Pedro has Guillen 0-2 with two down and decides to challenge him. Guillen catches up to the fastball and sends it to deepest center. Johnny goes back to the wall and leaps. Jerry thinks he has the ball when he comes down, but Johnny takes off his glove and flips it to show it’s empty.

  Pedro looks tough, despite the umpiring. In one stretch through the middle innings, he strikes out six of his last seven batters (in one cruel at-bat, he throws five straight changes to Jeff DaVanon, then gets him on a 3-2 fastball down Broadway), but with two down in the sixth he walks Guillen, who steals second (that’s smallball, running with two out and a decent hitter at the plate) so Erstad’s single brings him in. It’s a one-run game and Pedro’s thrown 115 pitches. This one’s down to the pen.

  In the top of the seventh, Scot Shields gets a gift third-strike call against David Ortiz on a pitch up and in that’s been a ball all night. Ortiz turns on Hollowell—he’s not the first to have words with him—and by the time Francona can run out and get between them, Hollowell’s tossed him. Ortiz wants a piece of him, and Sveum, bench coach Brad Mills and Papa Jack have to help Francona restrain him. He’s still mad when they bull him over to the dugout. He yanks two of his bats out of the rack and flings them in the direction of home plate. They nearly hit two other umps standing on the first-base line. It’s a dumb move—he’ll probably end up getting suspended, and we need his bat. At the same time, Jerry and Sean agree that Hollowell’s been so bad that it was just a matter of who was going to blow up on him.

  Curtis Leskanic gets two quick outs in the seventh on two hard-hit balls, then gives up a single to Eckstein before being pulled for Embree. Like last night, Embree gives up a hit to the first guy he sees. It’s first and third for Garret Anderson, and I’m having flashbacks. He’s 1 for 10 lifetime against Embree, but
that doesn’t comfort me. He grounds to the hole between first and second, a tough play for a mortal second baseman—an adventure for a Todd Walker—but Pokey makes it look routine, and once again I’m glad we have him. He could go 0 for 200 and I’d still want him out there.

  It’s a four-game series, and Scioscia wants two innings out of Shields. Shields has his fastball popping, but for some reason tries a curve on 3-2 to Kapler. It hangs belt-high, and Gabe puts it into the third row in left for his second of the season, and we’ve got some breathing room.

  Timlin sets up, with McCarty at first, and gets a brilliant play from Pokey on a chopper, snagging a short-hop a foot from the bag at second and gunning Guillen. Foulke’s the recipient of a tumbling shoestring grab by Kapler on his way to a one-two-three ninth. We win, and look good doing it. I’m surprised to see it’s 1:17: it’s been a tight game all night, well played if poorly umpired, definitely worth staying up for. The Angels are a good club; it took everything we had to win this one, and that’s satisfying. Let’s come back and play this way tomorrow.

  July 17th

  Saturday night, and by the time we switch over from the hilariously stiff They Are Among Us on the Sci-Fi channel, the resurrected El Duque and the Yanks have beaten Detroit and Wake’s given up three runs in the first. Colon walks the bases loaded in the second, but Johnny flies out. Vladimir Guerrero, looking like an MVP candidate, bombs a high knuckler onto the rocks, and it’s 4–0. Not only is Manny not playing, Bill Mueller is nowhere to be seen, and because it’s Wake throwing, Mirabelli’s catching, meaning (with the shift of Bellhorn to third) we’ve added Kapler, Pokey and Doug to a lineup already struggling to score runs.

  A scary play in the fourth, when hefty Jose Molina lines one at Wake’s head. He ducks, and it nails him in the back, just above the 9 in 49, and ricochets—still playable—high into the air. Nomar snares it coming across the bag for a pop out, but Tim’s still down. On the replay it catches him solidly, and I think he’s got to leave the game, but he takes some warm-up tosses and stays in. On his first pitch, Adam Kennedy cranks a flat knuckler into the right-field seats.

  In the fifth, Johnny gets one back with a line-drive homer down the short right-field line, but that’s it. New guy Joe Nelson relieves. #57, he features “The Vulcan,” a breaking ball gripped between his middle and ring fingers so his hand is split like Spock’s live-long-and-prosper sign. In the sixth, Nelson loads them, and Francona, considering this one finished, calls on Jimmy Anderson, who throws two straight wild pitches, then gives up a single to Garret Anderson. It’s 8–1 and 12:30, and I’m done.

  July 18th

  The final last night was 8–3. All I missed was a pair of solo shots by Johnny and Big Papi. Today’s a 1:05 Pacific time start, meaning I won’t have to stay up till one-thirty. And Mr. Schill’s on the hill, though I must say I’m getting a little grumpy with the club only winning his and Pedro’s starts (they’re a combined 13-1 since mid-May). Wake and Lowe have been shaky, sure, but we’ve also given up 40 unearned runs behind them.

  Manny’s sitting again, with Kapler filling in in left, McCarty at first and Bellhorn at second. Good news, though: the Tigers have beaten the Yanks, so we can get back to seven with a win.

  As the game gets under way, the TV presents us with a mystery. Anaheim’s a fine team, we’re a marquee club with a large following, and it’s a beautiful Sunday afternoon, yet the outfield sections are half-filled and there are empty rows all around the ballpark. Do the Angels fans deserve this team (this day, this game)?

  In the first, David Ortiz powers one off the wall in left-center. Mike Scioscia’s resting everyday left fielder Jose Guillen, and veteran Tim Salmon can’t get over quick enough to back up the carom, giving David a gift triple. Right-hander John Lackey, a number four starter at best, strikes out the side, and comes back in the second to strike out two more.

  Schilling’s cruising too, and then in the third he hangs a curve to hefty Bengie Molina, who puts it into the left-field stands for a 1–0 lead. Lackey bears down, snapping off a curve that gets lefties like Tek and Trot and Bill Mueller; by the fifth he’s struck out a season-high 7.

  Entering the sixth, both pitchers have given up two hits, but Schilling’s pitch count is rising. With one down, Johnny works a walk. Bellhorn follows with a single through the right side. Maybe Lackey’s tired, because his fastball to David Ortiz is knee-high and in, right where David likes them, and Big Papi golfs it over the fence in right.

  With his next pitch, Lackey drills Nomar in the elbow. The ump warns both benches, and Scioscia hustles out to argue. It’s stupid, since the warning hurts us more than them. Now if Schilling retaliates, he gets tossed. The ump should wait till we even things up, then say, “Okay, boys, that’s enough.”

  Lackey flags. He loads the bases and gets out of it only because McCarty hits a bullet to Figgins at third. For some reason Scioscia leaves him in, and Kapler greets him in the seventh with a leadoff homer on another knee-high, 90 mph fastball. Johnny doubles down the line, and, too late, Scioscia goes to Scot Shields. Ortiz singles Johnny in for his third hit and fourth RBI of the day, then scores when Nomar triples off the scoreboard in right.

  With a 6–1 lead, Schilling goes after Guerrero in the seventh, blowing him away with a 94 mph fastball down the pipe. He strikes out the side, like Pedro signing a win. He’s up to 100 pitches, so I’m surprised when he comes out in the eighth. He Ks Salmon, then plunks Molina (who hit the home run earlier) right in the ass. Molina looks out at him with both hands open—what’s up? Schilling’s had great control all day, and there’s no doubt this one’s payback. With the warning in place, the ump should toss him, but, inexplicably, doesn’t. Scioscia storms out of the dugout and plants himself in front of the ump, one hand on his hip, the other jabbing the air as he unleashes a stream of profanity we can easily lip-read. The ump tosses him, and while it’s unfair—maybe because it’s so unfair—we laugh.

  Timlin closes—poorly, opening the ninth by giving up back-to-back singles to Figgins and Garret Anderson and a run on a sac fly by Guerrero (about thirty feet short of the rocks), but finally gets out of it with a pair of ground balls, and we’re off to Seattle to face the terrible Mariners.

  Manny Ramirez is day-to-day with sore hamstrings (any number of sportswriters seem to think he’s malingering, but let’s see some of those overweight juiceheads get out there and run around left field for a few days) and Tim Wakefield took a fearsome line drive in the back last night, but we split four with Anaheim in their house, and to me that’s a great escape. We may even have picked up a game on the Yankees, who continue to struggle—go figure—against the Tigers. Still, the Red Sox look maddeningly lackadaisical, a befogged team of grizzled male Alices in baseball Wonderland.

  But Schilling was great again today. As my younger son would no doubt say, he’s so money he doesn’t know he’s money. Two more like him and never mind the World Series; the Red Sox would be ready for the Super Bowl.

  July 19th

  Another 10:05 start, another sleepless night. The Yanks have already lost to Tampa Bay, and when Tek breaks a 1–1 tie with a three-run bomb off J. J. Putz in the eighth, it looks like we’ll be six back. Arroyo’s thrown brilliantly, striking out 12 (including 11 straight outs by strikeout at one point), and the only run Seattle scored was due to some typical sloppy fielding.

  Because Schilling went so deep yesterday, the pen is rested. Embree and Timlin set up and combine to let in a cheapie, abetted by Bill Mueller winging a double-play ball past Bellhorn into right field, but Timlin gets a big strikeout with two in scoring position to end the inning.

  Foulke comes in to close. With one down, he gives up a solo shot to Miguel Olivo.

  “They sure don’t make it easy on us,” I tell Steph and my nephews. All the other adults have long since gone to bed.

  Edgar Martinez is next. At forty-one, he can’t run, so all Foulke has to do is throw him three low changes and he’s meat. Instead, Foulke throws him a
n 88 mph fastball over the heart of the plate. Edgar’s been killing this pitch since he was fifteen, and doesn’t miss. Johnny and Kapler both leap at the wall in right-center, but it’s gone, the M’s have gone back-to-back, and the game’s tied.

  “Unbelievable,” I say. The boys are angry and want Francona to take him out, but we don’t have anyone else. Embree, Timlin, Foulke—this is our A-team.

  Foulke gets the last out on a long fly to right, then struggles so much in the tenth that the boys quit. It’s 1:15 in the morning and we have to get up early tomorrow. Overall, Foulke throws 41 pitches. After starting the year 10 for 10 in save opportunities, he’s 4 for his next 9, and that shaky streak started against Seattle, that Sunday game when Raul Ibanez took him into the pen and McCarty bailed him out in extras with a walk-off job.

  In the eleventh, McCarty, leading off, gets on on an error. Kapler bunts too hard down third, and they get the force at second. Again, we’ve got no smallball. Kapler takes second anyway on a wild pitch, but Bellhorn looks at a very wide strike three, and Johnny flies to left.

  Since Foulke’s gone two, we have to bring in Leskanic. He gets behind Olivo 3-1, and Olivo singles through the hole. Dave Hansen wants to bunt him across. Curtis does the job for him, walking him. Then, in what must be seen as team play in Japan, on the very first pitch Ichiro bunts them over. Francona intentionally walks Randy Winn and pulls the infield in for Bret Boone. On 0-1, Boone hits a fly to left-center. It’s deep enough to score the run, so the fielders ignore it and jog in as the ball clears the wall for a walk-off grand slam. It’s 1:45, and I’m so pissed off that I’m glad they lost, because they suck. (See—it’s not we now, it’s they; the loss is so deranging that for a few minutes I have to separate myself from the team.)