Pedro comes out throwing 89–90. Catalanotto singles sharply to center, but that’s it in the first. Halladay’s up at 93, 95. He’s 6?4? with a patchy beard, and on the mound he looks Randy Johnson tall. Crespo leads off, and Halladay blows two by him, then freezes him with a backdoor curve. Bill Mueller and Ortiz barely get wood on the ball. Looks like it’s going to be a quick game.
Josh Phelps leads off the top of the second with a drive down the right-field line. It looks like it’s going to drop, but Kapler digs hard and dives, tumbles in the dust and comes up with it. It’s even bigger when the next batter, Hinske, rips a single. There’s some muttering in the seats, but Pedro bears down and gets Hudson, then gets a borderline call on Woodward, and the Faithful stand and cheer him off.
When Kapler stands on deck that inning, I call, “Great catch, Gabe,” and he turns in profile and nods. I’m so close I can read the writing on his T-shirt under his white home jersey. It’s a new tradition with the club; last year with Grady, the players wore all kinds of inside motivational slogans. Backwards across Gabe’s shoulders, it says ZAGGIN LAER. When he pops to third to end the inning, the ump inspects the scuffed ball and gives it to the Sox bat-boy (bat-man, really, because he’s a pro) Andrew. As Andrew’s coming back toward the circle, I call his name and hold up my glove, and he hits me. “Thanks, Andrew.”
Ortiz is wearing a slogan too. ARE YOU GONNA—That’s all I can get.
Both pitchers settle in. There are no rallies, no tight spots, just solo base runners stranded at first, and lots of strikeouts.
In the bottom of the sixth, Crespo leads off with a slow roller to short. He busts it down the line and dives headfirst for the bag—safe. It’s a spark. Bill Mueller rolls one to Delgado, who makes the right decision and goes to second to get Crespo. David Ortiz comes up (“El Jefe!”) and after seeing a few pitches blasts one deep to right that makes us all rise. It carries the wall and caroms off the roof of the Sox bullpen. In the stands we’re high-fiving. David touches the plate, lifts his eyes and points with both hands to God.
First pitch, Manny lines one for a single. Maybe Halladay’s tired. He’s thrown 80 pitches—120 Canadian. He blows away Kapler to end the inning.
Pedro’s having a quick top of the seventh when, with two down, he gets behind Hudson 2-1. Hudson’s the number seven hitter, a second baseman and not a big guy, so Pedro goes after him. He can’t get his 90 mph fastball past him, and Hudson parks it in the Jays’ bullpen.
It’s only 2–1 for one batter, as Bellhorn leads off the bottom with a slicing Pesky Pole homer.
Pedro Ks the first batter in the top of the eighth. It’s his last inning, and as he sometimes does, he’s going to sign the win by striking out the side. Except after Catalanotto takes a backdoor curve for strike three, here comes Francona from the dugout. Pedro looks around, surprised. He glances out to the bullpen where Foulke is warming, as if he had no idea. Francona chucks Pedro on the shoulder as if to say good job and takes the ball from him.
Petey’s thrown 106 pitches, but I wonder if it’s more of a power move on Francona’s part, taking an early opportunity to show the media and the talk-radio fans that this is his club and he can make Pedro do something he doesn’t want to do (as opposed to Grady, who couldn’t take the ball from him when it was clear he needed to come out). Foulke gets Vernon Wells on a roller, so it’s a good move, or at least not a bad one.
Manager Carlos Tosca decides to close the Mike Scioscia way, bringing in a lefty to get Ortiz, then pulling him for a righty to face Manny. Manny uncharacteristically swings at the first pitch, and greets Aquilino Lopez with a bomb to center that just keeps going. It’s hit into the wind but ends up a few rows deep in Section 36, somewhere around 450 feet. 4–1 Sox. After that, Tosca says the hell with it and leaves Lopez in to finish.
As we start the ninth, the crowd’s singing “Sweet Caroline” a cappella long after Neil Diamond’s finished. It’s a party, and when the folks in the front row take off to beat the traffic, I move up and stand at the wall with my hands on the bunting (real cloth, not plastic, as you might expect) as Foulke closes.
It’s only 9:30. It’s been the fast, clean game you’d expect from two Cy Youngs, all the scoring on longballs.
The high floats me home. Traffic’s light, and I’m entirely satisfied. There’s nothing to nitpick or second- guess, no needling what-ifs. Pedro wasn’t dominant, but he was very, very good. Ortiz delivered the big blow, Manny was 3 for 4, Kapler made that great diving catch. And—this is silly, since it’s not even Easter yet—with Baltimore whipping up on Tampa Bay, I do believe we own a share of first place.
SK: Well, well, good game. Petey looked like Petey and Roy Halladay surely looked like he was saying “FUCK! SHIT!!” after the Ortiz home run in the sixth. On the replay, too. So the Red Sox climb to .500 for the third time in the young season. Now, for the really interesting question—since most of us watch these things on TV (hell, I’m 1000 miles from Fenway, give or take a few), who pays the freight? Mostly Dad-oriented companies, as you might guess, but one of the heavy-rotation sponsors, McDonald’s, features hungry ladies leaving a baby shower and booking straight for Mickey D’s, where they gobble turkey clubs on pita bread. And maybe that’s not so strange; I watched tonight with my eighty-year-old mother-in-law, who went directly from the BoSox game upstairs to Maine-Denver Frozen Four hockey downstairs.
Also, for your consideration, the following big-league sponsors:
Tweeter (“Just sit back and enjoy”)
Dunkin’ Donuts (Curt Schilling with a Walkman, learning to speak New England)
Foxwoods Casino (“The wonder of it all”)
Geico Insurance (“Good news, your rap sucks but I saved a bundle”)
Xtra Mart (“Fuel up on Brewboy coffee”)
SBC Phone Service (“Old farts, please phone home”)
Friendly’s Restaurants (“Sorry, Dad, no sports car for you”)
TD Waterhouse (“Know your investment risk”)
Cool TV (i.e., “Watch more Boston Bruins hockey”)
Funny Bears Drink Pepsi Cola
Volvo (“Official car of the Boston Red Sox”)
Camry, the Car of Caring Dads
Ricoh Color Printers (“Because, face it, black and white sucks”)
Dunkin’ Donuts again (Curt again: “Wicked haaa-aaaad”)
Albert Pujols for DirecTV (“Mah bat iss alwaysss talkun to me…” Seek help, Albert, seek help)
AFLAC, the Anthrax Duck
Interestingly enough, no beer ads until after 9 P.M., when they come in a suds…er, flood. And goodness, are they ever suggesting young men should drink a lot, especially the Coors Light ads.
Also, Foxwoods advertises a lot. The strong suggestion of the ads being that “the wonder of it all” involves pulling a great many chrome-plated handles a great many times.
I thought you—and possibly TV-watching fans everywhere—should know these things. Now, all together: AAAAAFFFFLACK!
P.S. Did you see Johnny’s Cavemen? Are they the perfect Bleacher Creatures or what?
SO: Speaking of advertising, for the first time the dugouts are plastered with Ford ovals—like the Jays’ wallpapered with Canadian Tire ads.
I saw Damon’s Disciples before, during and after the game. A shame Johnny didn’t play. Crespo hustled (two infield hits) and played center passably. Let’s hope Millar’s days roaming Trot’s yard are over.
April 11th
