That probably warranted a wise-guy answer, but he heard a voice behind him saying, “He’s got a press pass because he’s a first-rate reporter, Bill. And if you paid any attention to anything except proving you’re in charge here for fifteen minutes a night, you’d know who he is.”
Stevie looked behind him and saw Bob Ryan, the Boston Globe’s star columnist. Given the guard’s bullying attitude, Stevie thought Ryan was taking a major chance standing up for him. Then again, this was Boston, and he was Bob Ryan.
“I really don’t need you giving me a hard time here, Bob,” Bill said, but the snarl was gone from his voice.
“And we really don’t need you holding up the line when we’re all on deadline,” Ryan answered. “Arnold and I have both told you the kid’s legit, he’s got a pass, let’s go!”
Bill hesitated. Clearly, he didn’t want to concede that he was wrong and Ryan was right. Just as clearly, he had to know that picking a fight with Bob Ryan wasn’t a great idea.
“All right, Bob, on your word I’ll let it go for now. But I’m going to check this out.”
“Yeah, you should do that,” Ryan said. “And then you can apologize to the kid for doubting him.”
Bill reluctantly stepped aside to let Stevie and Ryan pass.
“Thanks, Mr. Ryan,” Stevie said. “I really appreciate your help.”
Ryan shook his head. “The Red Sox should have fired the guy years ago.”
He headed off, and Stevie began making his way into the tiny locker area of the clubhouse. He stood for a moment getting his bearings, looking for Wil Nieves’s locker.
“Who you looking for, Steve?”
It was John Dever, the Nationals’ PR guy.
“Nieves,” he said.
“Right there, somewhere in the middle of all those people,” Dever said, pointing to a locker in the corner of the room.
Stevie nodded his thanks and moved to the outside of the circle. At that moment he couldn’t see or hear Nieves. He would have to be patient. The TV crews would push their way forward first, cameramen using the sheer bulk of their equipment to forge a path. They would get their sound bites and move away, and the circle would grow smaller. It was late at night, so almost everyone was on deadline. Stevie knew he would get close to Nieves eventually if he just waited the others out.
He looked at his watch. He was in pretty good shape. Because it had been a low-scoring game, it had taken only two and a half hours to play, lightning fast for a postseason baseball game, given the length of the commercials between half innings. It was now 11:20, and he didn’t have to file until the Herald’s 12:45 a.m. deadline. Stevie knew he could write eight hundred words in forty-five minutes, so as long as he was upstairs in the media workroom at his computer by midnight, he would be okay.
A couple of TV crews came out of the circle, and everyone else moved closer. Now Stevie could hear a little of what Nieves was saying.
“Every pitch was where we wanted it to be,” he said with a slight, though noticeable, Spanish accent. “The first six innings I could have put my glove down and closed my eyes because the ball was going to be right where I put it.”
That was a good line, and Stevie turned his body so he could scratch some notes down while still leaning in to try to hear. What he really wanted was to get Nieves to talk about Doyle off the field, since they had played together in the minors and he probably knew him as well as anyone on the team. Doyle had mentioned that to Stevie over breakfast, which felt like it had taken place about a month ago.
More people moved out of the circle. Now Stevie could actually see Nieves, who was sitting on a chair, still in uniform, streaks of sweat and dirt running across his shirt. There was still an ESPN crew that hadn’t finished up. The guy holding the mike, whom Stevie didn’t recognize, asked Nieves if he felt vindicated playing in the World Series after the Yankees had released him. Typical TV question, Stevie thought. It had nothing to do with the game, and if you looked at Nieves’s statistics, it was easy to understand why he’d been released. Before 2008 he’d never come close to hitting.200 in a season.
Nieves apparently felt the same way. “I don’t blame them for releasing me,” he said. “They traded for a guy who was better than I was. But I’ve improved my hitting the last two years, and that’s why I was able to stick with this team.”
Stevie already liked Nieves. He sounded like he was smart and honest. He didn’t give cliché answers. The ESPN crew finally moved away, and Stevie was behind only a handful of guys with notebooks. It was 11:35. Still in good shape.
There were more questions about Doyle’s control and his stamina near the end of the game. Nieves had clearly been through this already, but he understood that the media came in waves, often with repeat questions. He patiently answered the questions again. More guys moved away. Now it was only Stevie and three other guys. One, whose credential identified him as Tom Stinson from the Atlanta Journal-Constitution, asked the question Stevie had wanted to ask: “You and Doyle were in Triple-A ball together early this season and a few years ago when you were both in the Padres organization. Do you know him pretty well?”
Nieves smiled, then shook his head. “I probably know him as well as anybody. But that’s not saying much.”
That got Stevie’s attention. The four reporters all stayed quiet, waiting for Nieves to continue. Stevie was thankful there were no TV people around, because undoubtedly one of them would have plowed through the brief silence and asked something lame.
Seeing that no one was saying anything, Nieves shrugged. “Look, I’m not saying Norbert’s not a good guy. He’s a really good guy. Just quiet, very quiet.”
Stinson followed up: “Is he shy?” he asked.
Nieves thought for a moment. “I wouldn’t say shy,” he said. “He always seems to have a lot on his mind. He’s friendly, I’m sure you guys have talked to him. But for the most part, he keeps to himself. I just always thought he was, well, kind of sad, to be honest.
“Maybe it’s raising two kids by himself, that can’t be easy. Tonight when we got in here, before they let you guys in, everyone was pounding him on the back because he pitched such an amazing game, and he just kind of smiled, said thank you, and asked John Dever when he had to go to the interview room. That’s the way he’s been as long as I’ve known him. Joy doesn’t seem to be his thing.”
Stevie had been right about Nieves. He was clearly very perceptive and very honest-surprisingly honest, especially in a locker room situation. Stinson started to ask another question, but all of a sudden Stevie saw a microphone pop up in Nieves’s face and noticed a cameraman sticking his lens right over his shoulder.
“Wil, you guys have to be thrilled to go back to Washington tied at one game all,” the guy with the microphone said, asking an answer, something Stevie had gotten used to seeing TV people do a lot.
Nieves looked startled by the interruption, but he politely answered the question. The guy started to ask another question. Apparently, that was enough for Stinson.
“Hold it,” he said. “Wil was talking to the four of us, and you just barge in here and interrupt. You need to wait until we’re done, which will be about another minute.”
He didn’t shout, but his tone was firm.
“Hey, pal, I’m on deadline here,” the TV guy said.
“Just like everyone else,” Stinson said.
The TV guy turned from Stinson and asked another question. This time Nieves didn’t have a chance to answer because Stinson put his hand right over the microphone and stepped in front of Nieves.
“Your choice,” he said to the TV guy. “Wait sixty seconds, or we can stand here and both blow deadline.”
The TV guy started screaming profanities at Stinson and tried to grab the microphone back from him. Stevie saw the cameraman start to reach toward Stinson with his free hand. Without thinking, Stevie blocked the guy’s arm, throwing him off balance.
“Hey, what the hell do you think you’re doing?” the camera guy s
aid, stumbling backward and almost dropping his camera.
Before Stevie could answer, Stan Kasten, the president of the Nationals, whom Stevie had noticed walking around the clubhouse when he came in, materialized, stepping between Stevie and the camera guy.
“Hey, fellas, you aren’t supposed to fight each other, you’re supposed to fight guys like me,” Kasten said, smiling. “Let’s all get along here.”
The TV guy was yelling at Kasten about Stinson’s not letting him do his job. Kasten had been the president of the Braves for almost twenty years and apparently knew Stinson. “Tell me in ten seconds or less what happened, Tommy,” he said.
“Sure,” Stinson said. “The four of us were talking to Wil, and this guy barged in, stuck the microphone in Wil’s face, and went off on a tangent that had nothing to do with what we were talking about.”
“Free country,” the TV guy said.
“He’s right, Stan,” Nieves said, much to Stevie’s surprise. He had watched the scuffle with a bemused smile on his face. “These guys were almost done when he interrupted.”
“ Norman,” Kasten said to the TV guy, “when these guys are done, I will personally escort you back over here to talk to Wil.”
Stevie noticed that everything in the clubhouse had stopped so people could watch what was going on. In fact, he noticed several TV cameras rolling on the scene.
“But-”
“It’s that or nothing,” Kasten said. “Your call.”
The TV guy slunk away. As he turned to follow, the cameraman said to Stevie, “I’ll find you later.”
“Oh please,” Stevie said, even though a chill went through him. “What’re you going to do, hit me with your camera?”
He turned back to Nieves only to find that the circle had now grown, with others wanting to hear Nieves’s version of what had just happened. Stinson was standing next to him. “Well, I guess that takes care of getting anything more from him tonight,” he said. “You can’t win. You don’t say anything, you lose the flow of the interview completely. You do say something, you lose the interview anyway.” He put out his hand: “We haven’t met. Tom Stinson from Atlanta. Thanks for helping me out there.”
“Steve Thomas,” Stevie answered. “I’m sorry the guy interrupted. That was pretty good stuff.”
“Yeah,” Stinson said. “Worth following up on. Well, gotta run. I’ve got about twelve minutes to write before deadline. See ya later.”
Stevie looked at his watch. It was almost midnight. He had more than twelve minutes, but he needed to get going too.
He ran into Arnold leaving the clubhouse. “How’d you do with Nieves before the scuffle?” Arnold asked.
“Pretty good. I’d like to talk to him again without being interrupted.”
Arnold laughed. “Good luck with that,” he said. “Come on, we need to get moving.”
Stevie followed him to the elevator, wondering about Nieves’s final comment: “Joy doesn’t seem to be his thing.” The Norbert Doyle he’d had breakfast with had certainly seemed cheerful to him-except when the subject of his wife’s death came up. But there was the whole Susan Carol-David secret, whatever that was. There was a story here, Stevie knew that for sure. Unfortunately, he had no idea what the story was.
10: THE MYSTERY DEEPENS
STEVIE WANTED TO SHARE what Wil Nieves had said with Bobby Kelleher, but there was no time. Everyone was fighting deadline when he got back upstairs. Then in the cab back to the hotel, he didn’t want to say anything with Susan Carol sitting there.
He left the personal quotes about Doyle out of his story because they didn’t really fit with what his sidebar was about: Nieves’s view of how Doyle had managed to baffle the Red Sox so completely. He knew that Tom Stinson and the other two writers who had been standing there might well use the quotes, but he was thinking long-term: he wanted to consult with Kelleher when he got the chance and then follow up.
Normally, the person he would have talked to first in this sort of situation was Susan Carol. That, however, was not an option, in part because they were working for different newspapers, but more because they weren’t speaking to each other very much.
The next morning the four of them took the short cab ride back to Logan Airport. The series, and everyone in it or covering it, was on its way to Washington. Stevie spent most of the flight trying to catch up on some reading for his English class and trying briefly to work on some algebra, but the math might as well have been written in Chinese, so he gave up fairly quickly. It was a beautiful day, and the plane flew straight down the Potomac River, past all the monuments as it landed.
“Pretty spectacular,” he said to Tamara, who was sitting next to him.
“On a day like this, landing here is actually fun,” she said. “In bad weather, though, it’s not fun at all because the runways are so short.”
They took another cab to Potomac, Maryland, where Bobby and Tamara lived. They had two extra bedrooms, so Stevie and Susan Carol would be staying there for the weekend. Games three, four, and five would be played at Nationals Park on Friday, Saturday, and Sunday-all night games, of course, so that TV could get the largest audience possible.
They were talking over lunch about whether there was any need to attend the off-day workouts and press conferences. Bobby and Tamara, who were writing every day with their local team in the World Series, had plenty for their columns, and Susan Carol and Stevie had been given the day off.
But Stevie still wanted to go to the ballpark. The clubhouses would be open while the managers and starting pitchers for the next day were in the interview room, and he thought he might be able to get some time alone with Nieves. Or even Doyle, although he suspected Doyle would be the target of a lot of writers on the off day. With no game until the next night, he was still the big story.
“I’d like to go to the park,” he said. “You never know what you’ll stumble into when there aren’t a million people in the clubhouse.”
“Spoken like a real reporter,” Kelleher said. “Tell you what, I’ll drive down there with you. I’d actually like to talk to some of the Red Sox if I can. I can write from down there if necessary.”
That was perfect as far as Stevie was concerned. The tension between him and Susan Carol was almost unbearable, and the car ride would give him a chance to talk to Kelleher alone.
They left the house with Tamara sitting at her computer and Susan Carol reading a history book.
“So I take it things aren’t any better with Susan Carol?” Kelleher said as they drove down the George Washington Parkway. It was a perfect fall day in Washington, and Stevie was struck by how pretty the area was with the leaves in full color.
“Worse,” he said. “She lied to me at first about meeting with David yesterday, then when I told her we’d seen her, she got mad and told me she couldn’t tell me what they were talking about.”
Kelleher was silent for a moment-rare for him-as if deciding what to say next. “She flat out lied?” he asked.
“Pretty much,” Stevie said. “She said she’d gone over to Faneuil Hall and walked around the Freedom Trail but never mentioned spending time with David.”
“A lie of omission,” Kelleher said. “But a lie nonetheless.” He turned and went up the ramp onto the Fourteenth Street Bridge, and Stevie noticed they were back near Washington National Airport again.
“It wasn’t just that,” Stevie said. “She totally clammed up when I tried to ask her what they were talking about. Said it was a secret and then practically ran away from me.”
“Huh,” Kelleher said. “That doesn’t sound like her at all. But I’m sure she’ll open up sooner or later.”
Stevie hoped that was true. “I suppose. Different subject: listen to this.” He took out his notebook and read Kelleher the quotes from Nieves.
“Those weren’t in your story,” Kelleher said.
“They didn’t fit with what I was writing, especially with only eight hundred words,” Stevie said, feeling a bit defensive
. “That’s why I want to go down there today. So I can follow up and see if there’s more to it.”
Kelleher nodded. “Okay, good. It seems like there’s something about Doyle that we don’t know-but I haven’t a clue what it is. I mean, right now the guy is a true Cinderella story-all the years bouncing around the minors, single father, two great-looking kids…”
He paused to look over at Stevie. “Sorry,” he said.
“No big deal,” Stevie said. “You’re right. They are great-looking.”
“Anyway,” Kelleher continued. “Something’s missing here. We just need to figure out what it is.”
“Could be nothing to it,” Stevie said. “Or it could be something not even worth a story. Who knows?”
“You might be right,” Kelleher answered. “But you need to ask the questions to find the answers-or the non-answers.”
He eased the car off the highway at the South Capitol Street exit and headed for the new ballpark. The best description of Nationals Park, Stevie had decided, was efficient. Everything was sparkling and new, it had all the new ballpark amenities: huge scoreboard that could do everything but make a plane reservation for you; several fancy clubs; a lot of luxury boxes; all sorts of different foods; interactive video games on the concourses. But it wasn’t nearly as nice (in Stevie’s perhaps biased view) as the ballpark in Philadelphia. For one thing, Stevie’s home park had a spectacular view of the city’s skyline from almost anywhere. Nationals Park had no views at all from the lower deck, and from the press box-which was so high up it was almost scary-you could see the Capitol dome but little else worth seeing.
The ballpark was right on the Anacostia River. Almost no one was around as they made their way inside the media entrance and took the elevator downstairs.
“Should be perfect timing,” Kelleher said. “It’s five minutes before the Nats’ press conference at two.”
“You going to listen to that?” Stevie asked.
“Nah,” Kelleher said. “If someone says something interesting, it will be on the transcript afterward. I don’t need to hear how much respect Manny Acta has for the Red Sox.”
Change-up: Mystery at the World Series Page 8
