Change-up (3 page)

“Did you just shower?” he asked.

“After I swam,” she said. “Bobby got me into the pool at Harvard.”

Stevie was baffled. Harvard, he knew, was in Cambridge.

“Isn’t Cambridge a ways from here?” he asked.

“Actually, it’s not,” Kelleher said. “Only about ten minutes. Nothing in Boston is very far. But the Harvard athletic facilities are all on this side of the river, in Boston.”

Stevie admired Susan Carol’s dedication to her sport—she always managed to find places to swim away from home. But if he was being honest with himself, he’d admit that it also bugged him just a little that Susan Carol was a much more accomplished athlete than he was. He was hoping to make the JV basketball team, and he knew that even if he did make it, he wouldn’t be a starter. Susan Carol, on the other hand, was a nationally ranked swimmer. Her 100-meter butterfly time ranked fourth in the country in the fourteen-and-under age group. If he didn’t love her, he might be inclined to hate her … just a little.

They ate quickly and took a cab to Fenway Park to get settled in for game one. Stevie spotted the famous Citgo sign that loomed over the stadium. And they got out of the cab on Yawkey Way—a street named for Tom Yawkey, the former Red Sox owner.

It was four hours before game time, but people were everywhere. There were all sorts of souvenir shops and bars and restaurants lining both sides of the street. Kelleher led them through the crowds—including the inevitable ticket scalpers, all screaming, “Anyone selling tickets?” which Stevie now knew was code for the fact that
they
were selling tickets but didn’t want to get nailed by a plainclothes cop—to a small door with a sign that said Media. None of the stadium’s gates were open yet.

Stevie had come prepared with two different kinds of photo ID: his student ID from school and a passport. The first time he’d covered a major event, the guy handing out
credentials had insisted on seeing a driver’s license, until more sensible heads prevailed.

Stevie was about to pull out his various forms of ID when he heard Kelleher let out a shout: “Phyllis!” he said. “About time you showed up someplace.”

He was giving a hug to a woman with dark hair who had walked up to the credentials pickup area just as they arrived.

“I was at the American League playoffs, you know that,” she said, hugging Kelleher in return. “I can’t help it if you work in a National League city.”

“You’re still an American Leaguer at heart, aren’t you?” Kelleher said.

“Please don’t tell on me,” she said, flashing a wide smile.

Spotting Stevie and Susan Carol, she gave a little gasp. “Now, these are the people I really want to meet.”

“Stevie, Susan Carol, this is Phyllis Merhige,” Kelleher said. “I know there’s a general perception that Bud Selig runs Major League Baseball, but it’s not true. Phyllis does.”

“Stop it, Bobby,” Phyllis said.

She shook hands warmly with Stevie and Susan Carol and gave Tamara a hug. “I’ve followed you two since the Final Four in New Orleans,” she said. “The only reason I’d ask you for ID is because I can’t believe you’re both only fourteen.”

“It is a
pleasure
to meet you,” Susan Carol said, her Southern accent popping up as it often did when she wanted to charm someone. “Every time I see your name, it’s
always something about ‘the great Phyllis Merhige’ or ‘the wonderful Phyllis Merhige.’”

“That’s because she
is
great,” Tamara said.

“Enough, enough!” Phyllis said.

She turned to the three staffers sitting at the credentials desk. “Have we got the passes for these guys?” she asked.

“Right here,” said one.

“I need to make sure the kids have locker room badges,” Kelleher said. “That’s where they’ll do most of their work after the game.”

“They’re not down for the locker room,” one of the women said.

“Don’t worry,” Phyllis said. “They are now.”

She reached into her pocket and produced two badges that said Postgame Locker Room and handed them to Stevie and Susan Carol. “If you have any trouble when you get to Washington, find me and I’ll take care of you. Anyone asks where you got ’em, say you don’t remember.” She winked.

“I owe you one,” Bobby said.

“You owe me a lot more than one,” she said. “Have fun tonight.”

Stevie’s first impression of Fenway Park was simple: it was old. Walking through the dank hallways underneath the stands, Stevie found it hard to believe that this was the legendary place he had heard and read so much about.

“This is it?” he said. “This is Fenway Park?”

“Just wait,” Kelleher said.

“Patience has always been Stevie’s strength,” Susan Carol said, smiling.

They rounded a corner in the empty hallway, and Kelleher led them up a short ramp. As soon as they emerged, Stevie gasped.

“Wow,” he said, even though he knew the word was completely uncool.

“Worth the wait?” Mearns said, standing right behind him.

The ballpark was completely empty except for some maintenance guys and a few security people who were just beginning to fan into position. The grounds crew was just setting up the batting cage so the Red Sox could start batting practice. Standing ten rows behind home plate, Stevie felt as if he could reach out and touch it because the stands were so close to the field. The place was
tiny
. A lot smaller than Nationals Park in Washington. But he could see instantly why it carried the aura that it did.

The first row of seats were so close to the field they seemed to almost be in fair territory. The seats around home plate were all red and glowing in the late-afternoon sunlight. The famous Green Monster loomed in left field, looking even bigger than it did on television.

“Everything is so close,” Susan Carol said, echoing Stevie’s thoughts. “What an incredible place to watch a game.”

“There are two places left in baseball that are really special,” Kelleher said. “This place—”

“And Wrigley Field,” Susan Carol said, finishing the sentence for him.

“Exactly,” Kelleher said. “Some of the new parks—Oriole Park, Safeco Field in Seattle, the place in San Francisco—can be charming. But not like Fenway and Wrigley.”

“What
do
they call the park in San Francisco now?” Tamara asked.

“Not sure,” Kelleher said. “They keep changing corporate names on it every few weeks.”

“This place will never have a corporate name on it, will it?” Stevie asked.

“God, I hope not,” Kelleher said. “But most owners will do anything to make a buck these days. Come on, let’s go up to the press box and drop our stuff off. We can’t go on the field until BP starts anyway.”

They walked back under the stands to an elevator that whisked them to the top of the ballpark. The press box was glass-enclosed and seemed to be about nine miles up from the field.

They made their way to the seats assigned to Kelleher and Mearns. “In the old days this was a one-tier ballpark, and the press box was on the roof,” Kelleher explained. “Then they built all these corporate boxes on top of it and put the press box on top of
them
. We went from the best view in baseball here to one of the worst.”

“We don’t get a lot of sympathy about it, though, do we, Bobby?” a voice said behind them.

Kelleher turned and smiled at the sight of a middle-aged
man with thinning brown hair and a big grin. Stevie wasn’t sure why, but he looked familiar.

“No, Richard, we don’t, do we?” he said, shaking hands with the man.

Richard laughed. “I tell my friends back home that October’s a tough month for me because I’m away from my kids covering the playoffs and the World Series. They just look at me and say, ‘Yeah, tough life you lead, pal.’”

“Ever call one of them at about two o’clock in the morning when you’re trying to get a cab outside a ballpark?” Kelleher said.

“Thought about it,” Richard said. “But I still don’t think I’d have a lot of people crying for me. So, are you going to introduce me to these two guys or not? That’s the only reason I came over here—to meet them.”

“Figures,” Kelleher said. “Richard Justice of the
Houston Chronicle
and
PTI
, meet Susan Carol Anderson of the
Washington Post
and Steve Thomas of the
Washington Herald.”

As soon as Kelleher mentioned
PTI
—the one ESPN show Stevie watched regularly—Stevie knew why Justice had looked familiar.

“I’m a big fan,” Justice said, shaking their hands.

Susan Carol gave Justice the Smile, the one guaranteed to charm anyone and everyone who came into its range. “Why, thank you. As much as I enjoy you on
PTI
, I
really
love your writin’ in the
Chronicle,”
she said. “I read you online all the time.”

Once, hearing Susan Carol rhyme “laan” with “taam”
would have made Stevie shake his head. Now he got a kick out of it.

“Speaking of
PTI
,” Tamara said. “Rumor has it that Mr. Tony may actually show up at a game when the series moves to Washington.”

Justice laughed. Mearns was referring to Tony Kornheiser, the
PTI
co-host whom Stevie had met at the Final Four in New Orleans. “
If
they send a car to his house and
if
they give him four extra credentials so he can be carried in by litter, he may show up,” he said.

“What about Wilbon?” Mearns asked, referring to Kornheiser’s co-host.

“Michael’s checking his schedule,” Justice said. “He’s got golf with Chuck one day, and something with Mike another day, and I think he’s supposed to give the keynote address at the NBA owners meetings, but he’ll try to make it if he can.”

Mearns looked at Stevie and Susan Carol. “If you’re scoring at home, Chuck is Charles Barkley, and Mike is Michael Jordan.”

“You’re kidding, right?” Stevie said to Justice.

“Yeah,” Justice laughed. “But when Wilbon tells you his schedule, it usually comes out something like that.”

Mearns nodded. “It’s true,” she said. “Every time I talk to him on the phone, he says something like, ‘Gotta go, I promised Mike I’d call him right back,’ or, ‘The commissioner’s on the other line, he’s been bugging me for days.’”

Stevie loved this kind of talk about famous sports people, whether it was true or not. He knew Kornheiser
wouldn’t be borne into the World Series by litter, but he suspected he would insist on having a car sent for him.

“Hey,” Kelleher said, nodding toward the field, where the Red Sox had started batting practice. “We probably ought to get down there. Did we miss anything at the press conferences yesterday, Richard?”

Justice shook his head. “You’ll be stunned to know that both teams have great respect for one another,” he said. “They’re both happy to be here.”

“Let me guess,” Susan Carol said. “Everyone plans on giving a hundred and ten percent, and they hope that they can step up under pressure.”

“Congratulations,” Justice said. “You not only have the cliché handbook down, but you already have the best quotes from
today’s
press conferences.”

“Did anyone talk to Norbert Doyle yesterday?” Stevie asked.

Justice shook his head. “Don’t think so. The clubhouses were closed to us, and the only ones who came to the press conference for the Nationals were Manny Acta, Ryan Zimmerman, and John Lannan, since he’s pitching tonight.”

Stevie was glad to hear that. It seemed likely he’d be the first to talk to Doyle at any length at their interview the next day. And since Doyle was now on the World Series roster, the story was actually better than it would have been a week earlier. Maybe, he thought, he’d gotten lucky.

“Come on,” Kelleher said, pulling Stevie out of his reverie. “Let’s get downstairs.”

“Yeah,” Mearns said. “The sooner we get down there,
the sooner we can stand around and talk to each other there rather than here.”

Stevie knew from his experience at the playoffs what Mearns meant. Other than a short press conference with each team’s manager and the next day’s starting pitcher, there was just about no access to players pregame. During the regular season the media could go into the clubhouses almost any time and talk to players. Stevie had done that in Philadelphia during the summer on several occasions. But the postseason was different: the players were given a lot more privacy in October. So most of the pregame time on the field was spent talking to other writers. Still, for Stevie, that was fun too.

After all, he
was
really glad to be here. And he did plan on giving 110 percent and stepping up his game. This was the World Series—his first World Series. He was ready.

THEY STAYED ON THE FIELD
until they were required to leave, an hour before the game was to begin. Stevie spent most of the time taking in what was going on around him: when the gates opened to the public, people came streaming into the stands, most in red or in red and white, many wearing uniform tops with players’ names on the back. Stevie was surprised to see a number of Ramirez shirts, since Manny Ramirez, the oft-troubled Red Sox slugger, had been exiled to Los Angeles. Some Red Sox fans apparently remained loyal to him.

Stevie watched with amusement while fans lined up next to the dugouts, pleading with players to stop on their way off the field to sign autographs. During the regular
season Stevie would occasionally see players stop to sign. But not in October. They were all business now.

“Did you see who’s singing the national anthem?” Susan Carol said, wandering over near the Red Sox dugout while a number of fans pleaded with Jason Bay to “sign one, just one!”

“Kate Smith?” Stevie asked, referring to the late singer who had become a legend in Philadelphia as a good-luck charm for the hockey team in the 1970s.

“No,” Susan Carol said. “It’s the twenty-first century, Stevie. Try Beyoncé.”

That did impress Stevie. Beyoncé was quite beautiful
and
she could sing. He remembered watching her sing “At Last” during the inaugural ball earlier in the year.

The pregame introductions were every bit as impressive. The crowd even gave the Nationals a nice round of applause when the PA announcer said this was the first World Series in the forty-year history of the franchise and the first for Washington since 1933.