Faithful

by Stephen King

  They didn’t hit or field for Arroyo. The three-run shot by Tek was a gift. All they needed was six outs, against the worst team in the league.

  I want to blame someone, and the obvious target is Foulke. But I know that closers blow games. Even Eric Gagne blew one the other day. And while it’s true that the pen hasn’t looked good lately, Theo hasn’t helped matters by picking up retreads like Anderson, Nelson and Leskanic. Mendoza, who should be covering some of these middle innings, is taking up a roster spot but may never pitch another meaningful at-bat in the majors. But Theo didn’t give up back-to-back jacks.

  It’s just a loss, a brutal, late-night, extra-inning loss of a game we should have won, a game we needed (since we need all of them now), and there’s nothing to do but eat it and go on.

  July 20th

  It’s also the kind of loss that makes you nervous the next time the game’s on the line, and tonight we get a nightmarish rerun of last night when Lowe has to leave early with a blister and Seattle chips away at our 8–1 lead until it’s 9–7 in the ninth, with two on and no out and Foulke sweating buckets. Seattle has 18 hits, including 4 from Ichiro (along with 4 stolen bases), but has left 14 on.

  Because of last night, I don’t believe in Foulke at all. He could give up another walk-off job to Boone here, and I’d just shrug. Because I’m still pissed off at him (at them). The Yanks have already won, so a loss would drop us 8 back, and I think, fuck it. 7, 8, 9—it doesn’t matter. If we keep losing on the road like this, we don’t deserve to be in any race.

  Foulke doesn’t try to nibble like last night. He leads with his fastball to get ahead, then goes exclusively to the change. He strikes out Boone. Strikes out Edgar. Strikes out Bucky Jacobsen for the game.

  For an instant, as the ump rings up Jacobsen, I’m excited, but I cool off just as quickly. We barely squeaked this one out, and it should have been a laugher, after an eight-run fourth (David Ortiz with a three-run bomb, then Manny going back-to-back). Same problem as always: no middle relief. Leskanic let two of Lowe’s runners score. In his one inning, Timlin gave up a run. Nelson allowed two runs and only retired one man. Mendoza sat on the bench and watched. Kim was in Columbus with the PawSox. I have no idea where Theo was.

  July 21st

  SO: Thanks for the tickets for tomorrow and the weekend. This six-game home stand is crucial, after the ugly road trip. A bad time to stumble, since the Yanks are faltering as well. Kevin Brown pitched against the PawSox last night and looked good, so he may be back sooner than we might wish.

  SK: Last night’s win was just about as ugly as they get. I’ll take .500 on the road, especially on the West Coast, but we had a chance to come back 4-2, and in much better shape. I’m reading Moneyball now, and it’s really a jaw-dropping book. Lewis asserts, with no reservations whatever, that Art Howe is no more than the ventriloquist’s dummy on Billy Beane’s knee. Which leads me to wonder if that is now true in Boston—i.e., if Terry Francona is the dummy on Theo Epstein’s knee. And, if Epstein is following the Beane paradigm, then our team is in middling good shape assuming Theo is planning trades before the deadline. Beane feels good if he can go into the second half of the season six or less back. Still, I don’t buy into everything the book suggests, either from the standpoint of strategy, and certainly not from the standpoint of business morality.

  SO: My main argument with Moneyball is that the modest success of the A’s is based on Mulder, Hudson and Zito, and it’s pretty much a matter of luck that they came up at the same time and fulfilled the scouts’ expectations. So many prospects don’t, but these three did. Otherwise, the no-running, no-fielding, big OBP club has trouble scoring when it doesn’t hit three-run home runs—hey, just like us! Billy Beane’s always crowing about his genius, but look at the Twins, who’ve put together a better, steadier club with even less money. They’ve lost core guys like Eric Milton and A. J. Pierzynski, yet they keep on keepin’ on. And for a solid club that knows how to play the game, I’ll take the smallball Angels any day, even with their terrible starters.

  SK: I disagree. They were a certain type of ballplayer, picked for talent and affordability. And in the case of Zito, the scouts hated him. He was Beane’s pick.

  All that aside, this year’s Red Sox team is a sick entity right now, and I hate it. I keep going back in my mind to one of those games versus the Angels. We’re down by at least three runs, and maybe five. There are two out, and the Angels pitcher is struck wild. There are two on for us and Pokey at the plate. He puts on a heroic at-bat, finally drawing a walk to load them for Johnny Damon, who swings at the first pitch he sees—the first motherfucking pitch he sees!—and lines out to center. The fielder didn’t even have to take a step. That’s just deer-in-the-head-lights baseball. Something going on around here, what it is ain’t precisely clear…but I’m not lovin’ it.

  SO: It’s the twenty-first, meaning Theo’s got ten days to close his deals. I think we’ve got to land a quality arm, probably a starter who lets Arroyo be the middle-relief ace (a huge advantage, since no one out there has a Mendoza-type guy, and Nelson and Anderson are fire-starters). But I’m not holding my breath.

  First-pitch hitting is a killer, but Johnny obviously thought the guy was going to groove one to try to get ahead (like Foulke last night—any of those guys swings at that 88 mph double-A-quality fastball and it’s “See ya!”).

  SK: I thought of that, but it’s still a bonehead move. One of the things Lewis points out in Moneyball—courtesy of Bill James and the saber-metrics guys—is that batting average goes up seventy-five points if a batter takes the first pitch and that pitch is a ball. He also reminds the reader of Boggs, who always took the first pitch, and Hatteberg, who mostly does.

  SO: What hurts is watching all these opportunities go by, and that’s also a product of the OBP thing. Speaking of guys who always took one: Roberto Clemente. The Anti-Nomar. [Nomar is a notorious first-pitch hitter, regardless of the game situation, just as the Great One never swung at a first pitch.]

  Do you believe we’re tied for the wild card? Seems impossible, the way we’ve been playing. Almost wish the D-Rays would reel off another eleven straight to shake things up. Somnambulism, baby, that’s where we’re at.

  At least tonight I won’t have to stay up till 1:45 to watch us tank.

  No, only till the sixth inning, when Tejada breaks a 3–3 tie with a bases-loaded single to left. Pedro, who’s been missing his spots all night, nearly gets out of it, but Johnny’s throw on Javy Lopez’s short sac fly is weak and up the first-base line, and it’s 6–3. Earlier, Johnny misjudged a Tejada liner into a triple, leading to their first three runs, and later, in a whacky play, he relays a David Newhan shot to the wall in center toward Bill Mueller (who started, bizarrely, at second, with Youk at third), but Manny—in another classic Manny move—intercepts it, diving, then relays it to Bellhorn (who started at short), and by the time Mark guns it to Tek, Newhan’s in with the easiest inside-the-park homer you’ll ever see. It’s 8–4 and the Faithful boo. Melvin Mora follows with a single, and Petey’s done. Mendoza throws a third of an inning and gives up two hits, and Malaska has to save him. Then Jimmy “I’m the Boss” Anderson comes on and gives up his usual two runs before recording an out. It’s a 10–4 final, and with the Yanks stomping Toronto, we drop to 8 back.

  The only Sock who comes out of this one looking good is Gabe Kapler, who made a tumbling catch in right in the fourth, then hit a three-run shot onto the Monster to tie it at 3. The rest of the team looked like they’d gotten about three hours of sleep, which they did, since their plane got in at three in the morning (shades of Opening Day).

  Meanwhile, lots of roster moves right before game time. Pokey to the DL with a pulled rib-cage muscle, Youkilis up from Pawtucket. Joe Nelson down, Malaska up. And to have a backup for Nomar, Theo picked up journeyman shortstop Ricky Gutierrez from the Iowa Cubs. Ladies and gentlemen, your 2004 Iowa Red Sox!

  July 22nd

  SK: I’m off to Los Angeles.
I’m leaving this crucial home stand to your guidance, and probably a good thing. They looked so mizzable last night, didn’t they?

  It’s a day-night doubleheader today, and since Wake’s scheduled to start and the Yanks are coming in tomorrow, we can’t shift the rotation to cover the extra game. We don’t announce a starter till late morning: Abe Alvarez, a lefty from double-A Portland (Jimmy “I’m the Boss” Anderson is designated for assignment). #59, Abe’s pipe-cleaner skinny and looks about seventeen. He wears his cap cocked to the side like C. C. Sabathia, but throws soft—fastball topping out at 88, slow curve, change. He has trouble finding the plate in the first and gives up three runs, two on a Monster shot by Tejada, who is just murdering us this series.

  It’s hot—sweaty hot, heatstroke hot—and we’re in the sun. Over the course of the game I buy ten bottles of water for Steph and the nephews. We squirt them in our hats and down our collars and at each other. “Hey, frozen lemonade!” “Hey, sports bah!”

  Ortiz hits two triples, a kind of miracle, but doesn’t score either time. Melvin Mora lofts a shot toward the Sox bullpen that Trot has the angle on, but at the last second he gets alligator arms and shies away from the wall, and it goes over. The Faithful boo him—very rare.

  We also boo villain Karim Garcia every time he steps in. It’s his first visit to Fenway since he jumped the bullpen wall during last year’s ALCS to punch and kick a groundskeeper his buddy Jeff Nelson was already assaulting. “You’re a goon, Garcia!” we holler. When he strikes out midway through the game, the crowd behind the O’s dugout stands and jeers at him—maybe the most satisfying moment of the day.

  Abe Alvarez leaves with the score 5–1. He hasn’t pitched well, but he’s battled, and for a double-A guy the beefed-up O’s are a tough assignment. Francona goes to a triple-A guy, Mystery Malaska, who gives up a run. Millar, who’s been booed every at-bat since he hit into an early rally-killing DP, crushes a two-run shot to bring us within three, but in the ninth Francona goes to Mendoza (our washed-up guy), and Mora pounds a two-run bomb to put the game out of reach.

  All afternoon we’ve been watching the New York–Toronto score, 0–0 in the third, the fourth, the sixth. It’s been stuck in the eighth for more than an hour, as if they’re purposely withholding it. Now that we’ve lost, it changes to a 1–0 Yankees final. We’re nine back, the deepest hole we’ve been in all year, and 2-6 against the O’s.

  After the game, as we’re fighting traffic on Storrow Drive and then 93 and 95, the Sox option Abe to Portland, making room for Ricky Gutierrez. Trudy wonders how much they paid him for the guest spot.

  Between games, Bill Mueller, who went 0 for 5, decides to shave his head for luck like Trot and Tek and Gabe.

  And the league office informs David Ortiz that he’s received a five-game suspension for throwing his bats the other night in Anaheim.

  For the nightcap, the O’s roll out their kid pitcher with a high number, #61, Dave Borkowski. Gutierrez gets the start at short, Youk at third, McCarty in left. McCarty’s a revelation. We know he’s got a great glove as a first baseman, and an arm that can top 90 mph. In the first, he puts those together, snagging what ought to be an easy sac fly and nailing speedy leadoff man Brian Roberts at home with a perfect one-hop peg. It kills what could be a big inning, and in our half, with two down, he slices a bases-loaded single to right to give us a 3–0 lead.

  Wake’s crafty tonight, or maybe the O’s are tired. Both teams are listless, and it’s a quick one. Youk hits a solo shot into the second row of M5. Timlin sets up with a one-two-three eighth, then Embree gets a double-play ball in the ninth, and a strikeout to close it. A neat 4–0 final, and it’s only 9:30.

  It’s a win, but losing two of three to the O’s before the Yanks roll in is disheartening. Like Steve said, they’re miserable, and I’m miserable, and the rumors that we’ll trade Nomar while we can still get something for him are more miserable still.

  July 23rd

  The crowd around Fenway before game time is typical of a Yankee–Red Sox game: more loudmouth drunks, more shutterbugs and gawkers, more shills handing out free stuff, but at eight and a half back it’s hard to muster any showdown spirit. Call this one a grudge match, with the Sox trying to save some face. WEEI’s K posters say: SCHILLING IS THRILLING, and we hope he has enough to beat retread Jon Lieber.

  Outside Gate E, a guy’s wearing a T-shirt that says DAVID ORTIZ FAN CLUB with a picture not of Big Papi but of Esther Rolle as Florida in Good Times. On the back it has what I hope is a fictional quote from him: “This is not hot sauce, this is not barbecue sauce, this is the Boston Red Sauce.”

  Steph and I are the first in and man the corner for BP. A lot of the Sox have their kids with them in the outfield, wearing miniature versions of their uniforms.

  Jeter and A-Rod throw, and Jeter backs up till he’s right beside me. He’s wearing Nike spikes with the logo of the leaping Michael Jordan.

  “Now, the way Michael Jordan hit,” I ask, “isn’t it bad luck to wear his spikes?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Jeter says dully, as if he doesn’t care.

  After BP, we roll around to the Sox dugout. It takes a while, since the aisles are clogged with newbies and Yankee fans who can’t find their seats. They stop and stare at their expensive eBay tickets and then up at the poles of the grandstands, as if having difficulty reading numbers. “Keep it moving,” we say.

  We make it to Steve’s seats in time for the anthem, which is live and not Memorex (as it has been in the past), the proof being the guest Irish tenor botching the words—“the last twilight’s glea-ming,” “the rockets’ red glares.” Nice job, Dermot.

  As the game starts, again I have this sense of letdown. It’s Friday night, a packed house, Schilling on the mound against the Yanks, but we’ve played so poorly lately that it’s sapped the drama out of the matchup. We still chant “BAL-CO” when Sheffield steps in, but halfheartedly.

  When he takes Schilling out, hooking a Monster shot, all of that changes. Maybe it’s a sense of fair play, honest outrage at Sheffield getting away with his steroid use, or maybe it’s just hurt, but for the rest of the game, whenever Sheffield or Giambi come up, we greet them with “LIFE-TIME BAN, LIFE-TIME BAN” and “Mar-i-on Jo-ones! Marrrr-i-ooonnn!”

  Lieber’s hittable, and in the second Trot doubles in Nomar, then Bill Mueller launches one into the bullpen, and we’re up 3–1. Millar tacks on a solo shot in the fourth, and with Schilling only up to 54 pitches, we’re looking good.

  In the fifth, Mr. Schill gives up a leadoff single to Posada, then another to Matsui. Enrique Wilson flies one to left that looks like trouble, but it quails and Manny hauls it in on the track. Kenny Lofton follows with a ripped single to right. It should score the runner, except the runner’s Posada. Trot fires a one-hopper to Tek. Posada beats the throw, but Tek’s got the plate blocked. We can hear the plastic clack as Posada knocks into his shin guards. Tek spins and tags Posada’s shoulder, and he’s out.

  No, he’s safe—ump Tim Timmons is calling him safe. Tek looks down at the plate openmouthed with shock. Schilling races from his backup position, pointing. Francona trots over from the dugout. The crowd’s been booing the whole time, but the argument’s quick and civil, Timmons laughing, as if there’s no way he could be wrong.

  Our neighbor Mason later sees the replay upstairs. “He was out,” he says, “but it was a tough call.”

  “Yeah,” I concede, “you’d have to be a professional umpire to make it.”

  The run throws Schilling off, and he loads them before overpowering Jeter (who looks lost at the plate) and getting a force on Sheffield.

  In the sixth, A-Rod takes Schilling to 3-2 and then fouls off a few fastballs before singling up the middle. Giambi goes to 3-2 and fouls a few over the second deck, then walks on a curveball that stays up—terrible pitch selection. Posada goes 3-2, fouls off a couple, then singles through the right side. Bases loaded, nobody out, and Schill’s pitch count is in the high 80s. He wo
rks deliberately to Matsui and gets a hard hopper to Millar at first. It should be a double play, but Millar’s throw to Nomar is high and off the bag to the infield side, and Schilling doesn’t get over to first fast enough. Nomar holds the ball rather than risk throwing it away. 4–3 Sox, runners at the corners.

  Formerly washed-up Ruben Sierra pinch-hits for Enrique Wilson. Schilling has him 0-2 quickly, and Sierra has to fend off a good inside pitch with a protective swing. It’s a nubber down first, a swinging bunt. Millar fields it on the run. It looks like he’s got a play right in front of him at home on Giambi, but he glances back at first—Schilling’s assumed he’ll go home and hasn’t covered—and has to eat the ball. The Faithful boo.

  When Lofton sneaks a soft double past Millar that McCarty would have stopped, we boo harder.

  That’s it for Schilling, a frustrating end to a promising start. Usually our defense backs him up better than this, but if he can’t get a fastball past the “intestinal parasite”–weakened Giambi, then he didn’t have it anyway.

  Timlin comes on, and washed-up Bernie Williams rips a double into the right-field corner, scoring two. 7–4 Yankees, and more booing, curses, then a disappointed (disapproving) silence.

  When Millar comes up in our sixth, the crowd boos him lustily. “He hit a home run his last at-bat,” Steph points out. You can see Millar’s pissed off in the on-deck circle, focused, his teeth clenched. He rocks a Paul Quantrill fastball onto the Monster for his second solo shot, and when he crosses the plate, though the kids in the front row do the we’re-not-worthy salaam, his expression hasn’t changed.

  In the seventh, Johnny singles, then scores on Tek’s double to left-center when Matsui boots the ball. Ortiz walks, and we’ve got first and second, nobody out, and Manny up. So far Manny’s 0 for 3 with 2 Ks, but we rise and chant his name, expecting deliverance. He grounds into an easy 6-4-3 DP, and the crowd mutters. Formerly washed-up Tom Gordon then hits Nomar in the shoulder, but Trot flies to center.