Faithful

twentieth anniversary—got the plane tickets, hotel reservations, everything. Our first day there is the first game of the World Series. I say, “Hey, maybe we’ll be playing the Cubs.” She says, “We’re not going there for the World Series. I’m not playing second fiddle to the Red Sox.”

SK: Oh God, does that ever sound familiar. They’re playing our song.

There’s an official tally of the Opening Day payrolls. Once again, the Yankees top the majors at 183 million. The Sox are second at 125, the Angels third at 101.

By three I’m getting antsy, and call Naomi. I call five times before I get her machine and leave a message. Before I pack the family in the car and drive a hundred miles, I want to know the tickets are going to be there.

At a quarter to five, Naomi calls. She’s still not sure of the exact location, and the seats may be piggybacked—two in front, two behind—but they’ll be there. Thank you, Naomi; you came through like Tommy Brady. I’m sorry I ever doubted you.

It’s sprinkling at Camden Yards and the stands are half-empty. Wake’s going against a young lefty named Matt Riley who’s coming off Tommy John surgery. Ortiz sits, Millar plays right, Burks DHs and McCarty gets a start at first. Mirabelli, who usually handles Wake, is behind the plate. Along with Bellhorn and Pokey, it’s not the most power-packed lineup, so I’m hoping Riley doesn’t have much.

He doesn’t need much. Through eight, our five through nine guys are 0 for 10. The starters leave with the score tied 2–2, and then it’s the game that won’t end. By the twelfth, only Dauber and Mendoza haven’t seen action (they show Dauber in the dugout in a Sox watch cap, bent over, his chin propped on the knob of his bat like the one kid who wasn’t picked). It’s been four hours now; everyone else has long since turned off ER and gone to bed, and with the Sox not scoring in the top of the innings, the bottoms are like a death watch, just waiting for the bad thing to happen.

The twenty-fifth man, Bobby Jones, is on for us, and gives up a leadoff single to Bigbie. Mazzilli chooses to play by the book and has Roberts bunt him over. With two outs and Jones behind 2-0 on Tejada, we walk him intentionally and then get Palmeiro to ground out on a nice charging play by Bellhorn that Todd Walker wouldn’t have made.

We do nothing in the thirteenth. It’s raining again, and it’s past 11:30. Jones, who’s been going deep in the count to every batter, walks Lopez to start the inning. Bautista tries to bunt him across only once, then strikes out. The ump’s noticeably squeezing the zone on Jones on righties, where, in the tenth, he called two pitches well up and in strikes to lefties Tek and Bill Mueller. On 3-1, Segui swings but steals a walk by running down to first. On 3-2, Matos takes an agonizingly close pitch. The ump gives him the home call, and with one out the bases are loaded. Bigbie’s up. Jones has him struck out on a 1-2 pitch—down the pipe, not a nibble job—but, again, the ump doesn’t call it. Part of it’s the lateness of the hour, part of it’s the weather, and part has to be just a lack of respect. Jones dips his head and walks in a circle behind the mound. Ortiz visits from first to calm him down. A borderline pitch and it’s 3-2. And then the payoff pitch is up and out, and the game’s over. The camera follows Jones off, expecting he’ll say something in the direction of the ump. To his credit, he doesn’t.

I only watch Extra Innings for a minute, just long enough to hear Eck say, “Not pretty.”

As I get ready for bed, I keep replaying the game in my mind, running over the what-ifs, worrying that we’ll need this game somewhere down the road. And it was winnable. There was no good reason we lost it, just a terrible ump. I make a note to find his name in the paper tomorrow.

April 9th

His name is Alfonso Marquez. It’s said an umpire’s done a good job when no one notices him or her. Hey, Marquez, I got my eye on you.

The paper says Nomar, though he’s still on the DL, will be in uniform for the opener today, as if that will placate the crowd.

We get going a half hour late, but still arrive a good hour before game time. Parking is horrific. The main lot by the hospital is full, and we cruise Beacon Street down to Coolidge Corner, then try the side streets. We find a spot in a quiet neighborhood about a half mile away and hump it in.

“Anyone sellin’?” the scalpers call, but no one is.

The Will Call windows are mobbed, and incredibly slow. I wait in line for half an hour, and fear we’re going to miss the first pitch.

As we cut in to get to our section, I realize we’re right at Canvas Alley, where the grounds crew hangs out. Up the stairs, and there’s the green of the field and the Monster and the jammed bleachers with the scoreboard on top. Our seats are right on the alley, about ten rows back. We’ve missed the first pitch from Arroyo, but he’s still working on the first batter.

“The milk bottle’s gone,” Trudy says, and I look up to the roof in right field. The light stanchion there is bare, looming above three tiers of new tables squeezed in beneath a long BUDWEISER sign. The Hood milk bottle used to flash whenever a Sox pitcher struck someone out, and Hood would donate money in the pitcher’s name to the Jimmy Fund. I guess milk and beer don’t mix.

Also new are Toronto’s black road uniforms, which I don’t like. They look exactly like the D-Rays’.

Arroyo gets through the first, but makes his own trouble in the second by walking two. The bases are loaded when Reed Johnson doubles off the Monster. 2–0 Jays.

Behind us are four guys in the brewpub business. One of them is constantly on the phone, trying to cut a deal, hollering as if he doesn’t believe the signal will reach. “We can bring a hundred thousand to start,” he says. “I want to say we can go one-ten, one-twenty if we have to.” He has this conversation with a dozen people, as if he’s clearing the deal with his partners. Buddy, it’s Opening Day. TURN OFF YOUR CELL PHONE.

In the third Bellhorn’s on second with two down when Johnny comes up. “Save us, Jebus!” a girl beside us yells, a nifty Simpsons reference. Johnny fouls one off his knee that puts him on the ground. He can’t be hurt, we can’t afford it, and everyone cheers when he stands in again and bloops one down toward us that drops, making it 2–1. The next batter, Bill Mueller, hits another bloop toward us, spinning foul. Delgado’s got no shot at it, but Orlando Hudson sprints all the way from second to the line and dives. I see the ball land in his glove just as he disappears, thumping into the padded wall. I have to check the first-base ump shadowing the play: he clenches his fist in the out sign. Hudson’s still not up, we can’t see him at all, and then Delgado pulls him to his feet. His whole left side including his hat is covered with dirt, and we give him a standing O. That is some major league baseball. I hope I catch the replay on ESPN to see how he did it.

By now the crowd’s settled and Trudy and Steph make a run to the concession stand. There’s a new 3-D cup this year with the four starters on it, along with Fenway, a flag and an eagle left over from the 2002 model. The company hasn’t proofread the thing: Schilling is spelled SHILLING. And will be all season long.

In the fourth, Arroyo lets in two more. He’s just not sharp. But in the bottom of the inning Manny turns on an inside pitch and rips one off of Hinske at third (the ball rolling into the dugout, giving him second—it’s not an error for Hinske, just a hard chance and a bruise), Ortiz doubles to knock him in, and with two gone we load the bases for Pokey. He hits a floating liner to left. It looks like it should be caught, but it sails over Frank Catalanotto’s head to the base of the wall, and the game’s tied at 4.

When the inning ends, I head for the restroom and the concession stand. Everyone else has the same idea, and after I’ve tracked down some commemorative Opening Day balls, a Cuban sandwich for Trudy and a bag of Swedish fish for Caitlin, I’m walking across the big concourse behind right field when a roar goes up from the crowd, and then a roar on top of that that makes everyone turn. I hustle with my arms full to a TV monitor in time to see Tek jog across the plate. He’s homered to put us on top, 5–4.

To preserve the lead in the seventh, Francona brings in lefty Mark Malaska, who didn’t even make the club, but who we’ve brought up from Pawtucket because we went through the entire pen last night. Malaska is asked to get the good-hitting Catalanotto and then last year’s #2 and #1 RBI guys, Vernon Wells and Carlos Delgado. And he does, one-two-three. Mystery Malaska!

In the Toronto eighth, righty Josh Phelps leads off, so Francona opts to go with Mike Timlin, who only threw