Confessions of a She-Fan (18 page)

I check e-mail. There is nothing from anybody who can help me meet my Yankee. What will I do? How will I make the interview happen? Will I have to give the publisher their money back if I fail?

Our seats for today's game are in Tier 28, row T, which means we are in for one of those steep climbs that make me breathless. We are along the left field line in fair territory, and we are surrounded—really surrounded—by Red Sox fans. The guy behind me yells “Yankees suck”even before the lineups are announced.

I turn around. “Go fuck yourself.”

“Hey, come on,” Michael scolds me. “There's a kid here.”

A boy of about 7 is sitting below us. He is wearing a Red Sox cap.

“He can go fuck himself, too.”

Wang takes the mound, and his band of rooters wave their Taiwanese flags. The Red Sox fan behind me yells, “Wang sucks!” I want to kill him.

The Yankees get on the board in the bottom of the third with Cano's solo shot off Schilling. The Red Sox fan yells, “Jeter wears lipstick!” It is bizarre, because Jeter is not even up. The same moron shouts, “Hip, hip, Jor-gay!”I turn around to say something, but Michael clamps his hand down on my arm.

Cano goes deep for the second time in the bottom of the fifth. The Red Sox fan yells, “Jeter blows A-Rod!” I guess that in Boston being gay must be the worst thing you can possibly be.

In the bottom of the seventh, after Melky gets some chin music from Schilling, the Red Sox fan shouts, “Hit him in the head next time!”

That does it. I get up from my seat, turn around and yell, “Shut your fucking piehole or I'll shut it for you!”

“What the hell are you thinking?” Michael says as he pulls me back into my seat. “The only reason you're not getting your skull cracked open is because you're a girl. I'm the one he'll hit.”

I smile. I have not been called a girl since, well, I was a girl.

Wang has pitched a gem through seven, and Joba keeps Boston scoreless in the eighth. Okajima comes in for Schilling in the bottom half and allows two
more runs for 5–0. We are all on our feet, cheering and clapping and gearing up for the sweep, as Joba reappears in the ninth. He lets go of a fastball that sails over the head of Youkilis, who glares toward the mound. The next pitch? Same place. The home plate umpire ejects Joba. Joe comes out to argue that both pitches slipped out of the kid's hand, but the ump is not buying it. Joba takes a seat to a standing ovation. Edwar replaces him and retires Lowell and Drew. Game over.

“Great stuff,” says Michael as we file out.

“As good as it gets.”

On Friday I go for a power walk. It is hot and sticky,but I need the exercise. Watching ballgames is very sedentary.

I am marching past clothing stores and electronics stores and drugstores. And then I put on the brakes when I get to a Korean market. I spot the ripest, reddest, most luscious-looking tomatoes and suddenly feel a pang of sadness—that the tomatoes we were growing at home in California have died, that the tomato season is almost over, that the summer is almost over.

Summer has always meant swimming and riding around in my convertible and hanging out at the beach. But it is the start of the Labor Day weekend, and I have not done any of those things. And while this trip is a dream come true in that I get to follow the Yankees, it has also afflicted me with tunnel vision. All I think about is baseball, even more than before. There is a war in Iraq and a crisis in health care and a raging debate about global warming, but I am in a baseball bubble. This morning, for instance, there was an article in the
Times
with the headline “For Struggling Tribe, Dark Side to a Windfall.” I assumed they were talking about the Cleveland Indians instead of a Native American tribe out west!

Later, Michael and I meet my mother for lunch at an Italian restaurant.

“Are the Yankees being nicer to you?” Mom asks.

“Not yet.”

“So many nuts out there.” She shakes her head. “I guess they think you're one of them.”

She goes on to say how much she loves Melky and Jeter and Jorge.

“I wish I could warm to A-Rod, though. There's something about him that turns me off.”

“Is it the spitting?” My mother has a thing about that.

“He doesn't look like he's enjoying himself. He should be more like Canoe.”

“Cano.”

“And I like the right fielder. You know who I mean.”

“Abreu.”

She smiles shyly. “I have a little crush on him.”

“How is it that you can be in love with them without getting all upset when they lose?”

She pats my hand. “The wisdom of old age, dearie.”

Since it is the Friday night of a holiday weekend and we are playing Tampa Bay, not Boston, the #4 subway is not that crowded. The baby boomer woman standing next to me admires my Yankees hat, which is black and has rhinestones adorning the N and Y.

“We're going to the game tonight,” she says, nodding at her husband. “We go to practically every game.”

“My wife's writing a book about the Yankees!” Michael blurts out. “It all started after she said in the
New York Times
she was divorcing them!”

The woman squeals. “
You're
the one who wrote that article?”

“We read it,” says the husband. “That was really
you
?”

“Yes,” I say.

The woman reaches into her purse and pulls out a piece of paper. It is her grocery list. She hands it to me and asks me to sign it. I am actually giving an autograph on a subway.

At the Stadium we waltz up to Ticket Window #74, where Cass Halpin, the Devil Rays' head of VIP relations, instructed us to pick up our complimentary tickets.

Since we are VIPs, we are on the main level, in box 212, row F, instead of up in the Tier. It is the section reserved for the friends and family of the visiting team, according to the pretty young woman who oversees security for the section. Michael tells her she is the first nice security person we have met, and she laughs.

Hughes is on the mound and gives up a run in the top of the first. The
people around us are cheering, because they are all relatives of the Devil Rays players. I smile at them to let them know that I like the Rays, too. I also like the fact that these men and women are rooting for their team, not trashing the Yankees. They are not bitter and angry and using the word
suck
. They are a positive group.

The Yankees look flat at the plate, like they always do after they play Boston.

Hughes is at 81 pitches by the top of the fifth—not exactly an efficient outing. After he serves up a homer to Pena, he leaves for Chris Britton, the latest call-up, who comes back out in the sixth and gives up Pena's second homer of the day. Bruney is responsible for another three runs.

The Yankees lose 9–1. This is our 2007 season right here.

As Michael and I leave the Stadium,I tell him I was touched by the way the relatives of the Devil Rays supported their boys. “I hardly ever think about the players as real people having real flesh-and-blood families.”

“They're not the products of immaculate conception.”

“I realize that. There was just something refreshing about the family members cheering for their kids tonight. It was like a high school game where all the parents show up. I really enjoyed myself.”

He looks dumbstruck. “The Yankees lost and you enjoyed yourself?”

I nod. “I liked the way people rooted for their team even though that team is in last place.”

“It's called loyalty.”

September 1 feels like fall. A cold front blew in late last night; and today is cooler, less humid, with brilliant sunshine. The city is very quiet—well, except for the construction on Second Avenue—and it almost feels as if Michael and I are the only ones here.

Today is a day game after a night game—the second in the series against Tampa Bay. We are in the same box, 212, as last night, but in row B, which is even closer to the field.

I introduce myself to some of the Devil Rays families. Behind me are the parents and aunt and uncle of Dan Wheeler, a relief pitcher. They travel from Rhode Island to see their boy whenever he is playing in New York or Boston. Dan's father, Norman, is a friendly, down-to-earth man—the opposite of the stereotypically pushy sports parent.

The big Yankees news today is that our starter is Ian Kennedy. The 22-year-old has been promoted from Scranton to take Mussina's spot in the rotation. He is short and slight and looks about 14. From what I can tell during the warm-up, his pitching style resembles Moose's.

He goes seven innings, allowing three runs. He shows a lot of poise and, best of all, throws strikes.

The Yankees are cruising to a 9–3 victory until Viz comes in for the top of the eighth. He gives up a couple of runs, and the crowd boos him, fearing this game might slip away. Joe must be having the same fear, because he brings in Mo for four quick outs and gets them.

Back at the hotel, I check e-mail. There is one from Kim Jones. I had followed up and asked if she would be available for lunch on either Friday or Saturday of next week, when we are in KC.

“No, sorry, neither will work. Kim.”

That is her entire response. For a communicator, she is not very communicative.

I send her another e-mail. “Is there any time that would be convenient for you?”

It does not take long for her reply to land in my inbox.

“Jane: As I mentioned previously, I'm going to try to get back to you at some point.”

A smackdown! I am tempted to tell her not to bother
trying
, but if she is way busier than, say, John Sterling or Tyler Kepner, so be it.

Sunday is a day game—the last in the Tampa Bay series—and once again we are in box 212, row F, with Dan Wheeler's family. We also have Delmon Young's father, who has graying hair and a distinguished air.

Pettitte is pitching against Hammel.

Tampa Bay gets on the board in the top of the third with a solo shot by Navarro. I chat with Norman Wheeler, Dan's father. He says his son used to play for Houston before being traded to the Rays for Ty Wigginton.

“Did he like playing for the Astros?” I ask.

“Yeah,” says Norman. “He's still friends with Andy Pettitte. They had a nice hug when they saw each other on Friday.”

“How about Clemens?”

Norman smiles. “No hug.”

“Did you always know Dan would be a professional ballplayer?”

He shakes his head. “Just like you never think you'll win the lottery.”

“You're really proud of him.”

“I am.” He grins. “He's a great kid. And this team is better than you think. Just wait and see.”

Andy Phillips is hit by a pitch on his right hand and is sent to the hospital for an MRI. He is replaced at first by Betemit,which surprises me since Mientkiewicz is back with the team.

Pettitte works in and out of trouble all day. He is at 102 pitches in the bottom of the sixth, and I figure he is done. But he comes back out for the seventh and gives up three runs.

Edwar takes a beating in the top of the eighth, allowing two homers that put the Rays ahead 8–2.

In the bottom of the eighth, the Rays make a pitching change: Dan Wheeler. I am so excited! His parents are my new friends! Let's go, Dan!

His mother and aunt are too nervous to watch and hide their eyes, but Norman cups his hands around his mouth and yells, “Come on, Wheels!” Michael and I cheer for Wheels, too. He gets Giambi and Melky to fly out. There are congratulations all around.

The Yankees lose two of three to the last-place Devil Rays but cling to their two-game lead over Seattle for the wild card.

Back at the hotel, Michael says he is getting another cold. I pray this one goes away quickly, like the one he caught in Detroit.

It is Labor Day
and Michael doesn't feel like celebrating. He is sneezing and hacking. I say he should skip today's game and rest so his cold doesn't blossom into anything worse. He protests at first—“This is the beginning of an important series against the Mariners!”—but caves after another sneezing attack.

My sister is happy to be his surrogate. We meet at the 86th Street subway station about noon and ride to the Bronx together. We make an unlikely pair. She has short dark hair and a normal woman's figure. I have long blond hair and am shaped like a pencil.

When we arrive at the Stadium, I point skyward. “We'll be sitting up there.” She doesn't go to many games, so I want to prepare her.

“These aren't
that
bad,” she says, once we have settled into our seats in Tier 13, row H.

For me, the seats are great. Sure, they are insanely high up, but they are also between home plate and first base—prime viewing.

During the “Yankeeography” about Catfish Hunter, I spot a sixty something woman sitting alone a couple of rows below us. She has short gray hair under her Yankees cap, is wearing earphones that are plugged into a Sony radio with
a Yankees sticker on it, and is filling in names on a scorecard. I am curious about her—I have become curious about fans in general and She-Fans in particular—and hop down to speak to her.

“Are you a longtime fan?” I ask.

“Since I was a little girl,” she says with a wistful smile. “My father introduced me to the game. It was the greatest gift he ever gave me.”

I think about other She-Fans I have met. Their fathers introduced them to the game, too. “Do you think we'll make it into the postseason?”

“The pitching is inconsistent, but if we get quality innings out of the young kids, we could do it. And once we're in, anything can happen.”

“I'd hate to see us climb back from where we were, only to get knocked out in the first round.”

“We all have such high expectations—it goes with the territory—but sometimes things don't work out, and we just have to accept it.”

I study this woman as if she were a science project. She is a She-Fan like me, and yet she approaches the Yankees with such balance.

“Have you been a Yankee fan for a long time?” she asks me.

I nod. “I'm writing a book about my relationship with them.”

I expect her to laugh or roll her eyes, but she asks for my name. “I'll be on the lookout for the book.”

The Yankees jump out to a 1–0 lead in the bottom of the first, but Clemens, who is said to have foot blisters, has nothing. Ichiro's homer in the third is just the beginning, and the Mariners are up 5–1 when Mussina comes in to relieve in the fifth.

“Sorry for inviting you to this pathetic display,” I tell my sister. In addition to Clemens's miserable outing, the Yankees are stifled by Hernandez, the Mariners' hard-throwing starter. He is hurling 98 mph fastballs with 80 mph sliders thrown in.

“What do you mean?” she says. “I'm having a great time.”

Mussina does not exactly shut the Mariners down, but he is not as horrendous as he has been. He allows two runs over four innings, and the score is 7–1 as he departs for Chris Britton in the top of the eighth.

The woman I spoke to earlier gets up to go. I didn't figure her for someone who would leave before a game is over.

“Seen enough?” I call out to her.

“Some days they don't have it,” she says with a chuckle. “There's always tomorrow.”

Amazing. The Yankees are about to lose to a team they need to beat, and yet she doesn't act even a little miffed.

When I get back to the hotel, I check on Michael, who is still sneezing. I also check e-mail. There is one from Larry Brooks, who says he may be covering the Kansas City and Toronto road trips and hopes we can get together in one place or the other. He passes along the contact info of a friend of his named Jen Royle. He says she interviews all the Yankees for the YES Web site and knows them really well. “She's a great girl,” he says.

On Tuesday morning George King has an article in the Post about the party A-Rod hosted last night at the waterfront mansion he is renting in Westchester. I am furious that I was not invited. Of course, I am not even allowed in the press box, but I can picture myself all dressed up, sipping Dom Pérignon, munching on those miniature hamburgers that are so popular at cocktail parties these days and chatting with various players and their wives. I would surely have scored an interview with a Yankee.

Michael is still feeling rotten, so I leave him to sleep and rest. It is another beautiful sunny day, and I enjoy my walk down First Avenue to Luca, the restaurant where I meet Kat O'Brien for lunch. She is an adorable 27-year-old from Davenport, Iowa, who covered the Texas Rangers for the Fort
Worth Star-Telegram
before joining
Newsday
. This is her first season as the Yankees' beat writer.

While we eat, I ask Kat about the team and their chances of winning a championship and their chemistry in the clubhouse, and she is very knowledgeable about all of it. But mostly I am curious what it is like to be the Yankees' only female beat writer.

“Was the idea of moving to New York daunting?” I ask.

“It was exciting,” she says. “I'm not really afraid of new experiences.”

“Was it hard to make friends with the other beat writers?”

“Not really. I had heard that they were cliquish,but I knew most of them from covering the Rangers. Being female can be a negative in some ways, but it's also helpful because people remember you.”

“How is it a negative?”

“Older people who've been around the game for a long time don't really think women would know anything about sports. And you hear sexual comments.”

“How do you deal with that?”

“I pretty much ignore it. But I speak Spanish, and that makes it kind of interesting. One time I overheard something along those lines. I turned around and said something back in Spanish. One of the players said to the others, ‘Be careful. She understands.'”

Back at the hotel, I check on Michael. He is still feeling awful, so I enlist my friend Marty to be my date for tonight's game.

Marty is a Mets fan and, therefore, hates the Yankees, and when we get to the Stadium, he is not as diplomatic as my sister was about the seat he is stuck with. We are in Tier 11, row H, above home plate.

“How the hell are you supposed to focus on the game from all the way up here?” he says.

“You'll get used to it,” I say. “By the fifth inning, you won't feel like barfing.”

As Wang takes the mound, Marty asks me how the book is coming. I say I have not met a Yankee yet.

“This Jason Zillo guy is still stonewalling you?”

“I even asked him if I could interview him, and he never let me.”

He says I should try going through the players' agents. He pulls out a piece of paper and writes down the names of the agents he knows. He has been producing Broadway musicals for years and has no fear when it comes to picking up the phone and calling people. “One way or another, you'll have your Yankee.”

Wang's sinker is really impressive tonight. He holds the Mariners scoreless through six. In the bottom of the inning, A-Rod hits a towering blast into the upper deck in left. The Yankees are up 4–0 in the seventh when Joe finally puts Mientkiewicz in at first base. It bothers me that we have a Gold Glove infielder and don't use him.

The Yankees break the game wide open in the bottom of the seventh, scoring seven runs, but Seattle scores two off Vizcaino in the top of the eighth for 11–3. Viz is showered with boos as he trudges to the dugout.

“Yankee fans are merciless,” Marty remarks. “You're ahead by eight fucking runs.”

“No lead is safe with this bullpen.”

The final score is 12–3, and the Yankees are now two up on the Mariners for the wild card.

I wake up on Wednesday with Michael's cold. I figured it was only a matter
of time before I caught it. I can't afford to be out of it today—not for my reunion with “the girls”—Barb, Diane, and Patty. I am counting on them to tell me how to meet my Yankee.

I pull myself together and hurry over to Sarabeth's, the appointed restaurant on Madison and 92nd Street. Standing near the entrance are three middle-aged women who can only be Barb, Diane, and Patty. I have not seen them in 40 years, and yet I recognize them immediately.

Barb is “the tall one.” She has light blond hair that curls under her chin and is dressed in a chic black outfit. She looks prosperous and put together. Diane has light brown hair, full lips, and eyes that widen when she is excited and demonstrative,which is often. And Patty has flaming red hair with bangs that fall into her eyes. She is the most soft-spoken of the three but giggles frequently—the happy-go-lucky, free spirit. They are just as funny and approachable as I remember.

We go inside, get a corner table for four, and order lunch. I explain how I came to write a book about divorcing the Yankees and ask permission to turn on the tape recorder.

“My relationship with Sparky brought me such pleasure and pain!” Diane blurts out.

“Sparky Lyle?”

“It's such a long saga, and I don't even know if I should get into it,” she says, dying to get into it. “What I do know is that my story with Barb and Patty would be a great movie. I would write it myself, but—”

“Let's stay on point,” Barb cuts her off. You can tell they have been through this before. “What happened was, my dad actually played minor league baseball and my brothers were interested in baseball, so I became interested in baseball
players
.”

Patty laughs. “All three of us grew up in Philly. Barb and I were childhood friends.”

“When we were 14,” Barb continues, “we used to go to games at Connie Mack Stadium. My poor father would have to park outside and wait until all the ballplayers came out so I could shake their hands and say hello. We were all crazy about Richie Ash burn, and I knew what car he drove.”

“It was a different time,” Patty says wistfully. “The players parked their own cars and didn't lock them.”

“So Patty and I got in Richie's car one day during a game,” says Barb. “We laid down in the backseat and stayed very quiet. They brought his car up to him, and he got in and started driving. All of a sudden, I went, ‘Richie!' He turned around and said, ‘What the hell?' I said, ‘I love you.'”

We all laugh. “You were definitely the nervy one,” I say to her.

“I was,” she acknowledges. “But that started our relationship with Richie. From then on, we were the 14-year-old girls who would open his car door for him when he came out. He would say thank you and pat us on the head and muss our hair. All the guys treated us like their little pets.”

“When did you become more than the Phillies' little pets?” I ask.

“We started going to spring training,” Barb says.

Patty laughs and points at Diane. “We told our parents we were staying at your house.”

“We got friendly with Clay Dalrymple, for example,” says Barb. “He was a catcher with the Phillies. We used to babysit for him. But after we went to spring training the first time, we started looking at them all differently. We would check out the new players and say, ‘Oh, we like this one or that one.' By that time we were well known at the ballpark. We were allowed to wait outside the clubhouse and say hi to the players.”

“Were there other girls hanging out at the ballpark, too?” I ask.

“They were slutty girls,” says Diane. “We were still virgins.”

“Which is why the ballplayers called us the Cherry Sisters,” Barb says. “We would make out with them,but that was it.”

“We were groupies,” says Patty.

“We were
not
groupies!” Barb insists.

“How do you all define
groupie
?”I ask them.

“Groupies are those women who want to take half the team,” says Diane. “I think we were just looking for love in the wrong way.”

“And we were very selective,” says Barb. “That's the difference.”

“So you're just virgins who hang out at the ballpark,” I confirm.

“We would even go there in the off-season,” says Barb, “or when the team was on the road. We'd be let inside the clubhouse. We'd steal their jockstraps.”

Everybody laughs. “When did you start dating the players?”

“It was Frank Torre who got us started,” says Diane. “His nickname in Philly was ‘Toast' for ‘Toast of the Town.' I remember seeing him leaving the games
with a stogie hanging from his lips and a bevy of tall Playboy Bunny types on each arm. One night Barb, Patty, and I were waiting for a taxi to take us home from the stadium after a rainout. Frank saw us and asked if we'd like to go to a party. That was the beginning of our social life with the players—a step up from being their little mascots.”

“After that we'd go to bars where we knew they hung out, and we'd make out with them,” Barb says.

“We were so young we weren't scared of anything,” adds Patty.

“When I think back now,” Barb says, “I don't know how I got out of some of the situations I put myself in. I was once in a car accident with Jack Hamilton at 2 o'clock in the morning. I ran because I was afraid Jack would get in trouble. There was actually an article in the paper the next day saying they suspected a female was in the car.”