Confessions of a She-Fan (25 page)

On Thursday morning, Michael and I are reading all the accounts of last night's festivities when the Vinoy's fire alarm makes us jump. We are told to evacuate immediately.

We throw on some clothes and grab our carry-on bags and computers and stand outside in the hall looking bewildered. John Sterling pops out of his room in his T-shirt, sweatpants, and bed hair.

“It's probably a false alarm,” he says, rubbing his eyes. “I'm going back to sleep.”

“Did you have a good time at the celebration last night?”I ask.

“Oh, it was great. After the celebration at the ballpark—they only use cheap champagne for that—I went to dinner with Joe and everybody, and we drank Dom Pérignon.”

“Sounds wonderful.”

“How's everything going with the book?”

“I'm trying to interview Doug Mientkiewicz.”

“Doug would be perfect,” he says. “He's smart and charming. Is Jason setting it up?”

“Gene Orza is on it.”

Our seats at Tropicana Field for tonight's series finale are the same—section 108, row L. Joe is resting most of the regulars. He is conceding the division title to the Red Sox and preparing the team for the postseason. I know this is the correct move, but I would have enjoyed making Boston sweat a little.

Hughes is facing Kazmir in what is the Devil Rays' last home game of the season. The season tickets holders say good-bye to each other with those magic words: “Maybe next year.”

In the top of the fourth, with both pitchers throwing scoreless ball, my cell phone rings.

“It's Charles Wenzelberg,” he says. “I'm at Shea working the Mets game, but I wanted you to know that I did save you a cork from last night's party.”

I am so excited that I spontaneously rise to my feet.

“Sit the fuck down, lady!” the man behind me yells.

I sit back down.

“Are you going to the postseason?” Charles asks.

“You bet. It looks like we'll be starting off in Cleveland.”

“I'll bring you the cork.”

I am floating. I know, I know. We are talking about a cork, not the Dom Pérignon. Back in April when I was furious at the Yankees, I never dreamed they would have anything to celebrate, much less with me in attendance. And now a member of the traveling carnival thought enough of my devotion to the team to save me a souvenir from their most triumphant night of the year.

Hughes goes seven strong innings, and the Yankees win 3–1.

Back at the hotel it is dead quiet, the way it always is after the Yanks take off on their charter and fly away. We will be joining them in Baltimore, just like we did in July. It was our first stop of the regular season, and now it will be our last.

On Friday morning, Michael and I land at Dulles, rent a car, and drive an hour to the Renaissance Harborfront on East Pratt Street, where we are staying along with the Yankees. the Yankees. The lobby is filled with men, women, and children in Joba jerseys, the latest must-have garment for a Yankee fan.

I ask the woman at the front desk for a quiet room. She gives me one on nine, where I find a uniformed policeman sitting in a chair near the elevator. I am not only at the Yankees' hotel; I am on their floor.

Michael and I hold hands as we walk over to Camden Yards. It is a beautiful night—clear and warm with a nearly full moon. We stop at Boog's Barbecue. There is a long line, but I have been salivating for the pit turkey sandwich, baked beans, and spicy sauce for 2 months.

“You're not having any?” I ask Michael, who is not loading up.

“Better not,” he says.

Our seats are in the upper deck—section 340, row DD—with a really good view over home plate.

Mussina is pitching against Leicester.

In the top of the eighth, with the Yanks up 9–6, the scoreboard tells us that the Red Sox have beaten Minnesota. If we lose this game, Boston wins the division.

Mo comes in for the bottom of the ninth to nail down the victory—and blows it. Baltimore ties the game at 9–9, and we go into extra innings.

The bats do nothing in the top of the 10th, and Joe brings in Edwar to pitch the bottom half. half. He loads the bases, then strikes out Millar on a wicked changeup, only to give up a bunt RBI single to Mora.

The Yanks lose 10–9, and there goes the division. I remind myself that the Red Sox were the wild-card team when they won the World Series in '04. We can do it, too.

It is a glorious afternoon on Saturday with blue skies and temperatures in the 70s. I visit the Baltimore Basilica, a local landmark reputed to be the first cathedral ever built in America after the adoption of the Constitution. It is one of the most breathtaking churches I have ever seen.

I mount the steps and peek in the open door. There is not a single other tourist or worshipper this morning. I have the place all to myself.

I enter the cathedral and give myself a tour, admiring the inspirational paintings on the white domed ceiling. And then I take a seat in one of the pews and breathe in the silence. I let my mind empty, except to appreciate the peace and serenity of my surroundings.

I lower my head.

“Dear God,” I say. “Thank you for this extraordinary adventure; for my being able to watch the team I love with the husband I love by my side; for the family and friends I've reconnected with and for the new friends I've made. And thank you for getting the Yankees into the play-offs—no small miracle there, right?”

There is a mob scene in the lobby of the Renaissance by the time I get back. Yankee fans are everywhere.

Upstairs in our room, I check e-mail. There is one from Suzy Waldman. I had e-mailed her about getting together in Cleveland, but she explains that a lot of people from the Yankees' “Tampa faction” will be there, so she will not be available. I am finally getting it that the dinner we had in Detroit was not the forging of a friendship.

Michael and I walk to Camden Yards for tonight's game. There is the usual long line for Boog's Barbecue, and Boog himself is there.

“Hey, Boog,” I say. “Who do you like in the postseason?”

He smirks at my Yankees shirt. “Not your team.”

Our seats are in section 316, row MM—on the right-field side. Pettitte is
going against Daniel Cabrera. The “B” team is in again so the regulars can rest up for Cleveland.

It is one of those ugly games where neither side is playing well. The Yankees win 11–10.

Sunday is a quiet day, as it always is when the Yankees leave town. By the time Michael and I head out for the afternoon game at Camden Yards, the traveling carnival has checked out of the Renaissance Harborfront. They will fly back to New York after the game and arrive in Cleveland on Tuesday. I miss them already.

The afternoon is perfect for baseball—in the 70s, without a cloud in the sky. Our seats are in section 360, row BB, on the left field side. Following tradition, Joe hands over the managerial duties for the last game of the season to one of the veteran players. Today it is Jorge who will manage. Sean Henn is facing off against Brian Burres.

The Yankee fan next to me is a contractor from New Jersey.

“The Yankees were my only constant as a kid,” he tells me. “I never give up on them.”

“You have faith,” I say.

“You got that right.”

The Yankees score in the first after A-Rod singles Jeter home. The Orioles tie the score in the bottom of the second on Millar's solo homer.

It is 4–1 Yankees in the third when A-Rod comes out of the game and gets a huge ovation. Talk about a monster season—a .314 batting average, 54 homers, and 156 RBIs.

I check the scoreboard and see that the Mets are about to be bounced out of the season, losing badly to the Phillies. I call my friend Marty to offer my condolences.

“They're playing like dead people!” he rants, the sounds of a sports bar in the background. “Why should I even care about them?”

“Marty, come on. You don't mean it.”

“And Willie! He's just not motivating them!”

Is this how I sounded when I wanted the divorce?

With the Yankees ahead by 10–3 in the bottom of the ninth, Farnsworth serves up a homer, then retires the O's to end the game—and the season.

“Well, that's it,” I say to the Yankee fan next to me.

“On to Cleveland.” He checks stats on his PDA. “They finished with 968 runs, the most for the franchise since 1937.”

I worry about those 968 runs. It is always the bats that go cold in the postseason. I wish I could set aside, like, 50 of them for next week.

Michael and I have dinner at Phillips, a seafood place overlooking the harbor.

“Where are you guys from?” the waiter asks.

I almost say “New York” but catch myself. “California,” I tell him.

“I've only been to California once,” he says. “Someday I'll get back out there.”

Someday I will, too. Just not yet. Please, not yet.

Our plane lands in Cleveland
around 8:30 on Monday night. It is wet and cold—very different from the summer weather we had here in August.

We check in to another Renaissance, this one in Tower City, the same downtown complex where the Yankees will be staying at the Ritz-Carlton. The Renaissance is a beautiful old hotel, built in 1918, according to the brochure handed to me by the woman at the front desk. I ask her for a quiet room, and she puts us in a quiet suite—a “parlor suite,” which consists of a living room with a wet bar and a tiny bedroom. It is dark with low ceilings, and it has the musty smell of a hotel that was built in 1918. But it will be our home for the next 5 nights, so we settle in.

On Tuesday I wake up with no clue where I am. I bang my head on the wall of our parlor-suite bedroom, mistaking it for the way to the bathroom. This is the downside of staying at one hotel after another. You are at the new place, but you think you are still at the old place.

I go off to have a shampoo and blow-dry at the Marengo Institute, which sounds as if it should be a think tank or a medical research center but is the salon the concierge recommended. I need to look my best for the play-offs.

Later, as Michael and I are enjoying our pasta dinner at Bice, an Italian restaurant next to the Ritz-Carlton, I spot Mussina walking in with a man I don't recognize. They are escorted into a back room, and I wonder if Joe has convened a team dinner, the way he did at Spuntini in Toronto. But it is just Moose
and his buddy. I am thrilled to see him—and thrilled the Yankees have arrived in town.

Back in our parlor suite at the Renaissance, I write another piece for the
New York Times
sports section—one that will put a happy ending on my “trilogy” of essays about my relationship with the Yanks. When I am finished I read it to Michael.

“Is it okay?”

“It needs to be funnier.”

On Wednesday it is funnier. I e-mail the piece to Tom Jolly.

By the afternoon I am restless. I take a walk. It is overcast again but up in the 70s, which everyone says is unusual for October. Tomorrow is supposed to be in the 80s and sunny—freakishly warm weather.

At the corner of Superior and 9th Street, I come upon the Catholic church I visited back in August. It is not nearly as grand as the Basilica in Baltimore, but it is beautiful just the same. I go inside and sit down in the exact spot where I sat last time. There is only one other person in the church: an elderly white-gloved woman who is sobbing and dabbing at her eyes with a lacy handkerchief. I immediately add her to my list of people to pray for.

Once I have requested blessings for all my real-life loved ones, I turn my attention to my pinstriped loved ones. “Dear God. Please let the Yankees sweep the Indians. Please let A-Rod show everyone he isn't a postseason choker. Please let our starting pitching hold up. And please don't put Farnsworth into a game.

“Oh, and please let Tom Jolly at the
New York Times
think my essay is funny. Amen.”

Back at the Renaissance there is an e-mail from Tom Jolly. He says he will find a spot for my piece in Sunday's Times.

Michael and I celebrate by ordering room service. We watch the Red Sox beat the Angels in the first game of their series and boo both teams.

Speaking of celebrating, tomorrow is our 15th wedding anniversary. We have no plans to exchange gifts or commemorate the big day except to be in our seats for game one of Yankees–Indians.