Confessions of a She-Fan (17 page)

That is it. I have been dismissed.

I stand there, stunned. Michael takes my arm and leads me outside.

“Guidry was right there! I was right there!” I am ranting in a rental car in a suburb of Detroit. “Even if it didn't occur to her that a person writing a book about being a Yankee fan would kill to meet a Yankee, whatever happened to common courtesy? Whatever happened to sisterhood?”

“Maybe he doesn't like talking to fans and she knows that.”

“But this was my chance! Time is running out.”

“You've got the whole month of September to meet a Yankee. October, too, if they make the postseason.”

He is right. There is time. My friend Marty told me there is always one player, and that player is out there waiting for me. Somewhere.

It is back to the Marriott's RiverCafe
on Monday for lunch with Mark Feinsand and a quick chat with Sweeny Murti.

Mark is a heavyset man in his thirties. He has the tough-talking, raspy voice of the born-and-raised New Yorker he is. I love reading his articles in the
Daily News
, as well as his blog, because he has a no-frills, just-the-facts style, and you never worry you might be missing something.

“I hope you got some sleep after that marathon on Friday night,” I say after we sit down and order lunch. “Were the players pissed off that they had to be out there until 3:30 in the morning?”

“They hate doubleheaders, so they were just as happy to get that game out of the way.”

“They'll never make the play-offs with this pitching.”

He laughs. “I was a Yankee fan for most of my life, so I understand all your craziness. But I can't cover the team objectively and be a fan. You can't cheer in the press box.”

“Why do some players resent the media?”

“Some of them think our job is to create as much controversy as we can, to stir the shit, to sell papers,to get our names on TV. But most of us got into this because we love baseball and we love writing.”

“How about A-Rod? Do you think he'll stay in New York?”

“I change my mind every day.”

“Tell me about Jeter.”

Mark sits back and glances out the window.

“I went to cover Jeter at Columbia-Presbyterian. Every year he does this charity where he goes with one of his buddies, dressed up as Santa Claus. He visits the sick kids on the children's ward and gives them the thrill of their life. So I was the only reporter at the hospital that year—my first at MLB.com. This PR woman was whisking Jeter around,and I was standing in the back. I was told, ‘Just stay there and we'll get him for you.' The PR woman started to take Jeter away, and he said, ‘When do I talk to the media?' She said, ‘There's no media.' Jeter stopped, looked at me, and said, ‘What about him?' The PR woman said, ‘Oh, yeah. I forgot.' Jeter told her, ‘Give me 5 minutes.' He walked toward me, and we ducked into a stairwell. I asked him a couple of questions about the day and the charity and then asked him a couple of baseball questions. He said, ‘Thanks a lot. Merry Christmas.' He not only took the time to realize I was there, but he made sure I was taken care of. Did he break any big news that day? No. But it was classy on his part.”

“Very,” I say. The story makes me like Jeter more. “Did you have anyone to show you the ropes when you started out?”

“I had Sweeny. I interned at the FAN, and he was there then. He helped me a lot. Now when I see somebody new, I try to be nice. Of course there are limits to being nice when someone's a foof.”

“A foof?”

“A guy who asks stupid questions. Last year on Father's Day, some guy showed up and asked Joe Torre what he remembered about his father. Well, do a little homework, guy. Know that Joe Torre grew up with domestic violence and started a foundation because of it.”

“Was everybody cringing?”

“It was the most uncomfortable thing I've ever seen. Joe said, ‘I don't know if you're aware of my history, but my father abused my mother and you might not want to ask me that.' The guy said, ‘No, I do!' We were all just sitting there going, ‘Please go away.'”

“Sounds like Joe handled it well.”

“Joe handles everything well. He makes this job a thousand times easier.”

“My only issue with Joe is his bullpen management.”

Mark rolls his eyes. I am clearly a foof. “The Torre bashing brings me back to the subject of Yankee fans. They're spoiled. That's all there is to it—ridiculous, spoiled brats. Having been one, I know.”

“Do you think they're spoiled from winning or from having an owner who'll buy them anybody?”

“Both. Yankee fans have to appreciate how hard it is to win.”

Sweeney Murti walks over to the table. It is his turn with me, and Mark vacates his chair.

Sweeny is a handsome 37-year-old—as thin and wiry as Edwar Ramirez. He is friendly and easygoing, and it is not a stretch to picture him helping Mark during his first season with the Yankees. He needs to get to the ballpark soon, so our conversation is brief.

It is interesting to hear what it is like to cover the Yankees for a radio station as opposed to a newspaper. And, of course, we talk about the team's pitching woes and chances to make the play-offs. But what sticks with me—gnaws at me—is his assessment of Yankee fans, which echoes Mark's.

“Teams will have ups and downs, but Yankee fans don't want anything but ups,”he says. “The fact is you don't win every year—you can't win every year—and the fans will have to deal with that.”

Have all the championships completely warped me? Have I lost all sense of perspective? Do I really not know how hard it is to win? I remember all too vividly how hard it was to win on the tennis court. I could never shut down my opponent when it counted, never close the deal. Have I become a killer through the Yankees? Have I turned into the baseball-fan version of one of those spoiled, selfish, entitled women who used to beat me in the finals of tournament after tournament? The ones who threw their rackets when they missed a shot and disputed every call that went against them and were so competitive they even had to “win” the warm-ups?

It is off to Comerica Park for the series finale and the Yankees' last trip to Detroit this season. Our seats are in section 344, row 1—at the left-field foul pole. A woman throws peanuts at the people in the row below and thinks it is hysterically funny. Once again, the Comerica employees sit on their butts and do nothing.

Mussina is on the mound. I can't picture him getting another start if he gets shelled tonight.

He gives up a run in the first, two more in the second, and three more in the third. The guy has nothing, as opposed to Verlander, who is handcuffing the Yankees. Edwar and Henn don't help us from the pen, and the Tigers pound out 20 hits.

The final score is 16–0.

“I can't believe that in three starts I've forgotten how to pitch after 17 years,” Mussina tells the media afterward.

While we wait to board our flight to LaGuardia on Tuesday morning, I hop on my laptop and read what the beat writers are saying about Yankeeville. They are reporting that Mussina will be meeting with Torre and Guidry to discuss his future—whether he should work out his problems on the mound during Sunday's game against Tampa Bay or take some time off.

Our flight lands in New York. I didn't drink putrid plane wine or even miss it.

We check back into the Marmara, our home away from home. It feels wonderfully familiar. Since this is a slow week in New York with everybody fleeing to the Hamptons for the Labor Day holiday, we are given the same extra-large apartment we had last time at a special, lower rate.

Tonight begins yet another episode in the drama that is Yankees–Red Sox, as we open the first of a three-game set tonight. The Stadium is bulging with men, women, and children in Yankees gear, many of them looking a little lost. We, on the other hand, feel like regulars. We take shortcuts. We maneuver through and around people. We get an elbow in the ribs and give an elbow right back. We are no longer intimidated.

We go right up to the Tier level. We have not eaten since breakfast, so we buy food. Michael, who has rated the Yankee Stadium hot dog to be the worst of any he has sampled so far, nevertheless tries again. He looks at it, turns up his nose, and sends it back.

“Whassup?” says the girl behind the counter.

“It's not cooked,” he says. “I want another one. And I want it hot.”

Our seats are in Tier 32, row B—in the outfield just to the left of the foul pole. There are lots of Red Sox fans in our section. I can't understand why anyone would scream “Yankees suck” for nine straight innings.

Tiger Woods is in the house. So is Cameron Diaz.

Pettitte is going against Dice-K tonight. Joe announced before the game that Mussina will skip his next start against the Devil Rays and that another kid, Ian Kennedy, will be called up from Scranton to take his place.

Dice-K pitches to Damon in the top of the first. I cannot stand him. Dice-K, I mean. Same with Beckett, Schilling, and Pap Smear. Same with Manny and Big Sloppy. They are so arrogant. I hate them.

We are tied at 2–2 until the fifth, when Jeter's solo shot puts us ahead.

Varitek's own solo shot—I
really
hate Varitek—knots things up again in the seventh.

Damon's two-run homer in the bottom of the frame warrants a long curtain call. The crowd continues to cheer him not only for breaking the tie but also for sticking it to his old team.

In the top of the eighth, Joba trots in from the bullpen to chants of his name. I pray this is not the game when he finally screws up. It is not.

“Enter Sandman” heralds Mo's entrance in the top of the ninth. Varitek strikes out. Crisp strikes out. Lugo lines out. Three up, three down. Game over. What is it Boston fans are always saying about Mo? That the Red Sox have figured him out? No way.

Wednesday is a gorgeous day—sunny and hot but without the usual summer humidity, and Michael and I take advantage of it by walking all over the city.

Our seats for tonight's contest are in Tier 35, row B—in the upper reaches of right field. I am next to a Red Sox couple. They are in their late twenties and are wearing the blue caps with the stupid red “B” on them. I can't stand sitting next to them, but I try to be on good behavior.

The guy is from Connecticut. His girlfriend is from Boston. She is the noisy one. She is blond and effervescent and says that she loves the Red Sox more than she loves members of her own family.

“How do your parents feel about that?” I ask.

“They love the Red Sox more than they love me,” she says.

The scoreboard is showing a “Yankeeography” of Andy Pettitte.

“He really sucks,” says the blonde.

I do a double take. What sort of person would say Pettitte sucks at Yankee Stadium and for what reason? I am going to smash her face.

“By the way,” I say, “how come the Red Sox get a new shortstop every year?”

Michael gives me a look.

“Because we're not the Evil Empire,” she says. “We can't go out and buy the best players.”

She is not just a Red Sox fan. She is a moronic Red Sox fan. Does she not know that her team has the second-highest payroll in baseball?

“You did spend a hefty chunk of change on Dice-K,”I say. “And how about that $70 million contract for J. D. Drew?”

“There should be a limit on the number of trades teams can make so that fans in, like, Baltimore can finally know what it's like to win.”

There should be a limit on Red Sox fans allowed into Yankee Stadium. “The fans in Baltimore know what it's like to win. Ever hear of Frank Robinson? Brooks Robinson? Jim Palmer?”

“And Boog Powell,” Michael adds. “Best food in the American League.”

Bob Sheppard gives us the lineups.

“Jeter is so overrated,” the blonde pipes up again.

You do not trash the Captain. “I see Manny is out of the lineup,” I counter. “Did he pull a hamstring tying his shoelaces?”

She turns away in a snit.

Clemens takes the mound. He was Beckett's idol growing up, and this is the first time they have faced each other. The Rocket hits Pedroia with a heater. There are no warnings issued, but the pitch must be retaliation either for Dice-K hitting A-Rod last night or for Pedroia's comment after the game that A-Rod's hard slide into Lugo was “a cheap shot.”

In the bottom of the seventh, with the Yankees up 3–1, A-Rod belts one of Beckett's pitches for a line-drive homer, his 44th on the season and 508th overall, tying Frank Thomas. Josh is history.

Farnsworth comes in for the top of the eighth. He gets Ortiz to fly out, and there are huge cheers. But he gives up a two-run homer to Youkilis for 4–3 and sucks all the air out of the Stadium. Well, except for the blonde and her boyfriend, who are bouncing up and down with joy. After Farnsworth walks Varitek, Kyle gets the hook from Joe, who brings in Mo for four outs—again. Crisp grounds out. Hinske grounds out. Lugo grounds out. Pedroia grounds out. Game over. Yeah, the Red Sox have figured Mo out all right.

“Great meeting you guys,” I say to the blonde and her boyfriend as Frank Sinatra croons in the background. “Hope you had a good time.”

Thursday is a day game after a night game. I know the routine by now. Get up. Get dressed. Get some work done. Get to the ballpark.