Faithful (11 page)

Tonight’s the premiere of the Red Sox movie:
Still, We Believe.
Alyssa, my former student, has lined up a press pass for me, and while I’ve put together a short list of questions and fitted fresh batteries in the minicassette recorder, I’ve still got mixed feelings about crossing the line between fan and journalist.

We get to the Loews on the Common right on time, check in at the press table and claim a spot behind the velvet rope next to the red carpet. I’ve never had a press pass before, and I have no idea what secret powers it gives me. Outside, WEEI is doing a live feed from the street. It’s raining and cold out, and the crowd’s thin. As more people filter in, we’re boxed and jostled by TV cameras. NESN’s well represented, ESPN2, NECN, all the Boston channels. Nothing’s happening, but there’s some serious jockeying for position. Johnny Damon and Kevin Millar are definites, but those are the only two names mentioned. I’m hoping for Eck, maybe Yaz, Tim Wakefield, Pokey Reese.

Wally the Green Monster shows up in a tux, mugging for the cameras. “Hey Wally, who are you wearing?”

The fans featured in the film arrive, and the cameramen blind them with their lights, the sports anchors do their stand-ups. I’m not really interested in the fan-stars. I know I’ll get their stories from the movie anyway.

Tom Caron stops at the press table, and Dan Shaughnessy. Big Sam Horn signs a ball for me—something a real journalist would never ever ask him to do—and there’s Tom Werner and John Henry and Larry Lucchino, and Luis Tiant. Everyone but the players.

Outside, rented searchlights twirl across the night sky. It’s nearly show-time when Kevin Millar arrives in a vintage Western print shirt, jeans and shiny black cowboy boots. He smiles as he shakes hands and signs, doing stand-up after stand-up as he inches down the red carpet. I bypass the clot of reporters and set up at an open spot a little farther down.

I catch him just as he’s bouncing out. He’s trailed by a guy my age dressed head to toe in Sox paraphernalia, with his huge, naked beer gut bulging out and painted with the Red Sox logo and STILL WE BELIEVE. WEEI has judged him the most outrageous fan and given him a ticket to the show. He shakes Millar’s hand, pleased to meet him.

“Kevin,” I say—and he talks to me just because I’ve got this recorder; it has power, like a gun—“what were
you
like as a fan, when you were younger?”

“Like this guy.”

“You’re kind of the official fan of the Sox with the Cowboy Up, but who was your team?”

“Dodgers. Grew up in Los Angeles. Dodgers were my team.”

“Favorite player?”

“Steve Garvey.”

“You wear the jersey?”

“Never had a jersey, but I was a big fan of the Dodgers. I’d go to a lot of games.”

“Listen a lot on the radio?”

“Vin Scully.”

“Ever get the autographs?”

“Went and got the autographs, did it all.”

“Are you still a fan now? Can you be a fan now that you’re a player?”

“No doubt about it.”

“Are you still a Dodger fan?”

“Still a Dodger fan, still a fan of baseball.”

“You check their box score every morning?”

“No, I don’t check ’em, but I pull for ’em when I see ’em.”

“So you hope to see ’em this fall?”

“That’d be nice.”

And that’s it, I thank him and he’s gone to the next mike, the next camera. I’ve definitely crossed the line with my impersonation of a journalist, but, as a fan, it’s my duty to take advantage of whatever access I can get, for the sheer thrill of it.

Johnny Damon’s not here yet, but they’re going to start the movie, so we crowd into the theater with Kevin Millar and the owners and everyone else. Down front, a radio team introduces all the Sox VIPs, who stand in turn to receive their applause. When they call Johnny Damon’s name, Big Sam stands up as a joke. Finally the filmmaker, Paul Doyle, thanks everyone who helped and says, “The fans
are
the Red Sox,” a sentiment which seems true even before he presents his evidence. When I was talking to a real journalist earlier, I mentioned that I’ve only been a Sox fan for twenty-five years, so I’m new. I was here before Clemens, and I’ll be here long after Pedro. I’ve got a no-cut contract.

Steve’s in the film—briefly, a shot of him chatting with John Henry before the ill-fated season opener in Tampa Bay. That was the one Chad Fox blew, and while the movie doesn’t have the time to tell the rest of the story, after we dumped Fox he went on, along with former Sox closer Ugie Urbina, to defeat the Yanks and become a World Champion.

In trying to squeeze the whole season (and eight very different fans’ lives) into two hours, the film can’t connect all the dots. What strikes me most are all the Sox from last year’s squad who are gone: Shea Hillenbrand, Todd Walker, Brandon Lyon, Damian Jackson, John Burkett, Jeff Suppan, Scott Sauerbeck and of course manager Grady Little, who, since we’re in a room with the people who fired him, gets laughed at more than I find necessary. We witness Theo informing our number one prospect Freddy Sanchez that he’s being traded to Pittsburgh (for Suppan and Sauerbeck, neither of whom panned out).

The main tension and source of comedy in the movie is the tug-of-war between hope and pessimism. Angry Bill, a diehard who’s become a fixture on local call-in shows, vows that he’ll never believe in the Sox again, and sees disaster everywhere—until we take the A’s. Fireman Steve Craven is more laid-back. “We’ll get ’em tomorrow,” he says, and caps the film, after the disaster of Game 7, with his observation that all the losing will make finally winning it all that much sweeter, “don’t you think?”

It’s a fun film, but there’s so much missing. Where’s Bill James and his ridiculous bullpen-by-committee idea? Where’s BK giving us the finger? Where’s Roger’s last win in Fenway? Where’s Todd Walker’s 2-out, 2-strike shot against Baltimore? Even the intricacies of the playoff games are glossed over, so while it gets some of the emotion of being a Sox fan, it still just skims the surface, and being a Sox fan is about total immersion.

The after-party at Felt is crowded and loud, but there’s free Sam Adams, good hors d’oeuvres, and, for the brave, Fenway Franks served out of actual vendors’ steamers. Beside us, Luis Tiant is chowing down. I want to talk to Larry Lucchino, maybe interview him about growing up a Pirates fan in Pittsburgh, but he’s lost in the crowd, and then when I see him, he’s on his way out. We’ve got to get going too. Tomorrow’s a school day, it’s raining like hell and we’ve got a long drive.

On the way home, Trudy says she was disappointed that only Kevin Millar showed. I am too, but big props to Mr. Millar, who did it all cheerfully. In his business a night off’s a cherished rarity. I know I get on him for his lack of speed in the outfield, but, as with that difficult assignment, tonight he stepped up when no one else did.

Ellis Burks’s knee is hurting him, and his .133 batting average is hurting us, so he’s on the DL and the Dauber’s coming up from Pawtucket. In ten games there, he hit .350 with 5 homers and 11 RBIs, including a walk-off shot. “In baseball, you’ve got to keep plugging—until forever, I guess.” Is there any wonder why we love this guy?

A strange front must be moving over New England, because it’s been sunny all day here, but up in Boston it’s pouring. To cheer us up during the rain delay, NESN shows clips of Nomar and BK working out at Fenway earlier today. Nomar’s in shorts, taking grounders at half-speed and then talking with Mia Hamm over the low wall along third. BK’s also in shorts, playing catch in the outfield grass; you think of him as this whip of a kid, but his thighs are massive and cut like early Arnold. Don and Jerry make it sound like he’ll be our number five guy and Arroyo will go to the pen.

A good hour and a half after game time, the Sox call it.

The team’s so excited about BK’s rehab that he’s going to skip his last minor league start and pitch the first game of tomorrow’s day-night doubleheader. Schilling will still go tonight, and Lowe tomorrow night, meaning Wake is sacrificing his start, something he’s done throughout his long tenure with us, unselfish of him, and extremely valuable, giving his manager more flexibility.

Though he’s running and taking infield, the team says Nomar’s still at least two weeks away.

After a rainout on the 27th, Schilling (and the bullpen) tossed another gem last night, beating Tampa Bay, 6–0. Tampa Bay only got a single runner as far as third base, and while I like the D-Rays (I sometimes think of the Red Sox as my baseball wife and Not-So-Sweet Lou Piniella’s Devil Rays as my baseball mistress), I have to admit they are reverting to type after a hopeful start. But of course the Red Sox’s 13-6 start is also part of a pattern I have observed over the years; call it BoSox Happy Hoop Days. The way it works is simple enough: the Red Sox have a tendency to tear up the American League until the NBA playoffs wrap up; after that, more often than not they sputter. And leave us face it, a two-game lead over Baltimore and a four-game lead over the Yankees, while better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick, really ain’t all that much. Of
course
it beats being behind, but I think I’ll wait until after July Fourth to decide whether or not Schilling and Company are for real.

Footnote A on today’s entry: Our Mr. Kim, he of the restless middle finger, is back from sore-shoulder woes (and a stint in Pawtucket) today. He’s supposed to be limited to seventy-five pitches, after which Tim Wakefield will come in to relieve. Damn! It’s a day-night doubleheader, and I was kind of hoping Timmy would pull a Wilbur Wood and start both games (nor am I joking).

Footnote B on today’s entry: Although Derek Jeter’s hitless streak has now reached 0 for 32, tying a Yankee record (the immortal Jimmy Wynn, in 1977), the Bombers beat the Oakland A’s for the second straight night. They’ve only picked up half a game on Boston (because of that rainout), but the wins suggest that Boston’s weekend sweep in the Bronx mayhave had more to do with Red Sox pitching, defense, and the bat of Manny Ramirez than it did with any Yankee funk. It may be too early to declare the Red Sox the class of the AL East, but it may
not
be too early to at least suspect that this year they
out
class the New York Yankees.

I check the standings to see how many games up we are on the O’s (2) and discover we’ve got the best record in baseball. I think that’s got to be wrong, since we opened 3-4, but no, only the Twins and the pitching-rich Marlins are anywhere near us.

Game 1 is BK versus Victor Zambrano, who’s had some success against us. Dauber’s starting at first base, and on the first play of the game lets a grounder slip under his glove for an E. Welcome back, Dauber.

It’s a brilliant spring day, sunny, in the mid-seventies. Because this is a rainout of a night game, the Sox have to let ticket-holders sit in Sections 34 and 35 in dead center, which normally for day games are sealed off with a black tarp for the hitter’s backdrop. The Sox have solved the problem by giving everyone sitting in the sections a T-shirt the same forest green as the seats.

Both pitchers are throwing well, but the defenses behind them are scuffling, as if the idea of playing an extra game today doesn’t agree with either team. Bill Mueller and Doug Mirabelli lose a foul pop in the sun; it drops not between them but ten feet to the side. Later, Billy and Cesar Crespo go back for a short fly in left; Manny comes racing in, calling them off, almost collides with Crespo and drops the ball.

A play you rarely see in the second: Jose Cruz Jr.’s leading off first when Tino Martinez hits a screamer right at him. Cruz doesn’t have time to go right or left, he just ducks. The liner skims off his back, barely nicking him, but Dauber points to let the ump know. The first-base ump says it never touched him, bringing Francona out to argue—at which time, without consulting anyone, the second-base ump calls Cruz out. Go Blue!

Kim looks sharp, getting groundouts with the ball down, then climbing the ladder with a good rising fastball. I saw his first start for the Sox last year in Pittsburgh, an efficient win, and he looks much the same. He’s up to 70 pitches after five, and finishes the inning with a strikeout. As he walks off, the fans stand—remarkable, since this is the first time he’s pitched since giving us the finger. Five innings, one hit, no runs. Come home, Byung-Hyun, all is forgiven.

Zambrano’s cruising too, striking out the side in the fourth, but in the fifth, with a man on, he gets behind David Ortiz 3-0. Zambrano obviously hasn’t read the scouting report, because David’s always got the green light. He plants a meatball in the sea of green shirts in Section 35.

It’s all we need, as Wake comes on to baffle the D-Rays for two more innings, then Timlin, then Embree. The final’s 4–0, our third straight shutout. The pen hasn’t been scored on in over 30 innings.

We get on the road to Game 2 just as Game 1’s ending. We’ve got a table up in the new right-field roof terrace, and Steve’s dugout seats. Trudy has papers to grade, so Caitlin and her friend Lindsay will take the good seats first and we’ll switch after the fourth.

It’s turned into a warm evening, and Yawkey Way is a carnival. A guy on stilts in a Sox uniform tosses a puffy ball to random people in the crowd. People are having their pictures taken with Wally in the big red chair on the sidewalk. The guys at Cambridge Soundworks are handing out their Sox bumper stickers—I BELIEVE and TURN IT UP—and we take a minute to gawk at the high-definition TVs in their little alcove. Then it’s the long walk out to the big concourse in right field.

The stairs we take up to the roof are new, concrete and steep. The elevator shaft is in place, but there’s no elevator in it yet. The views of Back Bay and the park at every turning are spectacular. I’m puffing by the time we make it to the top, and the low sun in the west is blinding. We get to our home-plate-shaped table in the second row and test the swiveling seats, the same as on the Monster. But there’s not as much room as on the Monster—the wire fence digs into my knees when I try to turn toward home—and we’re much farther from the action. On the way up, we passed the very last row of the bleachers in Section 43, joking that the corner seat there was probably the worst seat in Fenway. We’re a good two stories higher, above the retired numbers attached to the roof’s facing, nearly eye level with the top of the Pesky Pole. The view is the one you’d have if they built a second deck, as they were threatening to with the New Fenway. It’s as far away as I’ve ever sat at a Red Sox game.

It’s also windy, a breeze coming over the back of the deck whipping napkins off the tables and out over the front railing, where an updraft floats them high into the air. I’m glad it’s warm now, because it’s going to be cold later.

Lowe’s going against lefty Damian Moss, a recent retread, so I think we’ve got the advantage. The first batter Lowe faces, speedburner Carl Crawford, bonks a double off the wall. Julio Lugo, known best for banging his ex-wife’s head off the hood of a car (“Hey, Lugo, restrain yourself!”), bunts, and Lowe misplays it. A grounder by Woonsocket’s own Rocco Baldelli scores Crawford, ending our scoreless streak, and the crowd’s not happy. We’re even less happy when Robert Fick doubles to right, scoring Lugo. Steph shakes his head; it’s just like the Yankee game we saw Lowe throw here.

I overhear that Jeter’s homered in the first at the Stadium, breaking his hitless streak. All good things must come to an end.

We come up to bat down 2–0. I realize the girls have forgotten to take my glove—for protection, seriously—and hustle down there. I’m underneath the grandstand when I hear the crowd cheer for Johnny. I guess that he’s on base. Another cheer, this time for Bill Mueller. So probably a single. A bigger cheer (it’s a long way), and I catch a monitor by a concession stand in time to see Johnny scoot home with our first run. I reach the seats as Manny’s batting. The girls think I’m nuts, bringing down the glove, but I insist. “Lindsay,” I say, “you’re getting a ball tonight.”

Moss is all over the place. He throws one to the backstop, moving Bill Mueller and Ortiz over. “Watch the ball,” I tell the girls, because it’s scuffed. The ump tosses it to Andrew, who looks back and sees me and the girls. Lindsay stands and Andrew throws it right to her—only to have this linebacker-sized guy in a muscle shirt in the front row reach back and snatch it away from her. The section boos, and the poacher realizes what he’s done and dumps it in Caitlin’s lap. So Lindsay gets her ball.

And Manny singles, scoring Bill Mueller to tie the game. Tek rocks a three-run shot. McCarty singles, Kapler doubles. That’s it for Moss—7 earned runs in one-third of an inning. For a guy trying to make a comeback, that’s got to hurt.

In the top of the third, Rocco Baldelli stings a tailing liner to right that Gabe Kapler makes a great diving catch on. When Kapler comes up with two down in the bottom of the inning, he must still be pumped, because he bunts for a base hit, digging hard and diving headfirst to beat the throw.

“I don’t know,” I say, and explain to Steph that with a big lead it’s generally a sign of disrespect for the other club to bunt for a hit. Then Kapler steals second. “We’ll see if they throw at one of our guys,” I say.

Lowe’s done after seven. Not a great start, but he’ll get a W, thanks to good run support. Foulke closes, striking out Crawford and Lugo to finish it. It’s a 7–3 final, a relatively uneventful game, and a sweep of the D-Rays. The Yanks have swept Oakland, who should be seriously worried. But no one’s worried about the Yanks here, not tonight. We’ve won six in a row, and the crowd leaves the park happy. Even the talk radio guys on WEEI can’t gripe—and whom should we hear but Angry Bill, who says, “Smooth sailing—that’s what the captain of the
Titanic
said.”

Thinking of Kapler last night, I wonder—with Trot due back soon—if he was trying to remind management of his special abilities. With Ellis Burks on the DL, he may be safe for a while, but there are no guarantees. So far Francona’s shown he’s willing to start Millar, Crespo and McCarty in the outfield, and I imagine we’ll see Dauber out there eventually.

In the mail is a stack of scoresheets from the Remy Report. Now, instead of having to buy the same $4 program all month, I can just flip a single sheet over and fold it into my pocket when I’m done.

Also in the mail, a talisman: a ball signed by Sox playoff and World Series hero (how often do you hear those words together?) Dave Henderson. I add Hendu to the ball case like the crucial ingredient in a witch’s brew.

We’re still in a rain delay with Charlie Moore, NESN’s Mad Fisherman, when the Yankee final crawls by—they beat KC for their fourth straight. And ten minutes before midnight, when the Rangers finally call it (after the crowd’s waited through a three-hour delay), the Yanks pick up a half game on us. The game’s rescheduled for tomorrow at five Central time, meaning we’ll be playing our second doubleheader in three days. Good thing our starting pitching’s deep.

Last night after the game was called, Pedro mouthed off to reporters about his lack of a contract. He’s pissed at the Red Sox for spreading rumors about his shoulder to drive his price down around the league. He says that he’s decided to go free agent after the season, and that, if the situation’s right, he could see signing with the Yankees. (All this I pick up from the
Courant
; later, when I see him making comments at his locker on TV, he says, “I want the fans to know my heart is here in Boston. I want to finish in Boston.” He shrugs. “But I have to make a living.” None of this is in the paper.) He also makes reference to Larry Lucchino’s tenure with the Orioles, when they went from being a contender to a second-rate club. “Who was behind the Orioles?” he asks. “I’m not going to mention any names.”

It’s bad timing, with the Sox riding so high. Usually I’ll stick up for Petey, but in this case all a fan has to do is look at Dauber or McCarty or Crespo. There are a lot of guys on this team who are just glad to be here, and rightfully so.

Jon Lieber’s glad to be back pitching for the Yanks. He’s the one wearing Roger Clemens’s #22. Maybe it’s an act of faith on the Yankees’ part. It’s unnecessary today; Lieber gets tons of run support and the Bombers whomp Tony Pena’s struggling Royals 12–4.

I only catch the first inning of Game 1 against Texas before we go out to see
Kill Bill, Vol. 2.
By the time we get back, Game 1’s over, and we’ve lost 4–3. Arroyo threw well, but the pen finally gave up some runs (it was just a matter of time; you can’t throw scoreless ball forever). Williamson gave up the big hits, but it’s Mystery Malaska, who faced only one batter, who gets the L. Manny, suddenly going cold, K’d four times.

I figure we’ll get the split, with Pedro taking on green Joaquin Benoit, but Petey’s awful from the start, giving up an opposite-field job to Hank Blalock in the first, then melting down in a 5-run third. Every pitch is up, nothing’s working, as if he jinxed himself with last night’s hissy fit. “Payyydro,” the sparse crowd taunts. He’s gone after four, and DiNardo’s on for some garbage time. The final’s 8–5, but it was never that close.

After the sweep yesterday, I’m ready for a solid win. Tonight’s game is ESPN’s
Sunday Night Baseball
feature, and starts an hour later than usual to make prime time. Once again, the pitching matchup’s in our favor, Wake vs. R. A. Dickey, a junk-balling righty. His off-speed stuff looks hittable but isn’t. Our whole lineup (except Bellhorn, who adds to his league-leading walk total) chases it. Dickey even throws a low knuckler called The Thing, the seams never turning. Wake, throwing his high, floating knuckler, matches him till the fourth, when Johnny misplays a liner into a triple, giving them a cheap run.

It’s 1–0 most of the game, with few base runners. Wake tires in the seventh, giving up several foul-ball home runs. Francona wants him to finish the inning, and with two out and two strikes (including another foul-ball homer), David Dellucci straightens one out, and we’re down 2–0. In the eighth Embree comes on and promptly gives up two runs.

In the ninth, the crowd chants, “Sweep, sweep,” waving brooms. Buck Showalter leaves Dickey in to get the complete-game shutout, even though he’s visibly tired. With one down, Manny hits a bloop single, Dauber crushes a liner right at the right fielder, Millar walks, and that’s it for Dickey, no complete game. For the third time in two days, on comes Francisco Cordero. Bellhorn works the count deep, turns on a fastball and sticks it in the upper deck—foul—then walks to load the bases. The crowd’s edgy now, and they’re as pissed as Dickey when Cordero walks Tek to blow the shutout. 4–1, bases still loaded for Crespo, who, despite ample playing time, has yet to drive in a run. Our thin bench is showing, because Francona literally has no one to go to, and Crespo flies to center to end it.

A weak game, and that includes the Yankee-style rally in the ninth, groveling for walks. Ortiz and Bill Mueller aren’t hitting, and Manny’s in a rare cold spell. Last year the bottom of the order could pick us up, but that’s when Bill Mueller was batting eighth and Trot ninth. Now we’re trying to get run production out of Kapler, Crespo and Pokey, and it’s not happening.