Faithful

foolishly pitch to him. Down 1-2, Manny fights back and finally walks. So there’s no delicious revenge. First and third, two down. Dauber steps in and skies the first pitch to center, and the game’s over.

“You guys suck!” I say, and change the channel. I don’t want to hear the recap—I don’t need to. We’re 0 and 4 on the road trip, and have squandered that cushion from sweeping the Yanks. It’s not that we’re not hitting with men in scoring position, we’re not hitting at all. Bill Mueller’s not getting it done in the two slot, Ortiz and Millar are struggling, and there’s no one to protect Manny. At least Francona acknowledged how desperate we are, running Pokey and Johnny to get something going in the late innings, but he may need to shake up the lineup. Trot and Nomar are still a long ways away.

May 4th

My brother John’s visiting, and my friend Phil’s flying in from Tokyo. His brother, Adam, has scored tickets to the only major league game within five hundred miles, the Mets and Giants at Shea. None of us is a Mets or Giants fan, but baseball’s a fun way to spend time together—“a tonic,” Phil calls it, and he’s right. Watching baseball is the only way I naturally relax. If I care about the teams playing, I’m anxious, but the rest of my worries vanish.

The paper promises that Barry Bonds will play, but he has a sinus infection and sits. The only star on the field is Mike Piazza, but he’s catching, and he can no longer play the position, he’s just there until he breaks Fisk’s home run record. Everyone knows it too, and in the second inning we’re treated to some classic National League action as the Giants bunt three times, scoring an unearned run when Piazza throws wild down the first-base line.

It’s a dull game, and a quiet crowd—very un-Fenway-like. Half the seats are empty, half the concession stands shuttered. Worse, the crowd expects nothing from the team. The biggest cheer is for the girls shooting bundled T-shirts into the stands with a CO₂ bazooka. On the small scoreboard, between innings, they run today’s Wall Street ticker.

The one Met who impresses me is shortstop and Japanese import Kazuo Matsui, who has a coterie of fans right in front of us eating homemade rice balls. Kaz is 2 for 2 and makes a slick play in the hole. When he comes up next, Phil, a veteran of the Tokyodome, shouts, “Ganbatte!”—meaning “Persevere!” or “Do your best!”

“Ganbatte, Kaz!” we yell.

For me Shea’s a break from the grind of the Sox’s losing streak, but right beside us is the scoreboard. Cleveland’s beating Lowe 2–0 in the second. 2–1 in the fourth. 3–1 in the fourth, 5–1, 6–1, 7–1—and Lowe’s still in there. The way we’ve been hitting, I don’t hold out much hope.

Here it’s 6–2 Mets in the seventh, and the stadium’s clearing out. By the middle of the eighth, there can’t be more than 10,000 people, and it’s not even ten o’clock.

In Cleveland the Sox rally in the ninth. Suddenly it’s 7–6, and the Indians have changed pitchers. A couple minutes later they change again, to #63, Betancourt. I let the Mets distract me from the scoreboard. I keep thinking I’ll look up and find us winning, but then the red light beside BOS goes out, the 9 turns into an F, and we’ve lost five in a row.

Ganbatte!

May 4th

SK: I got back to Maine this afternoon around 2 P.M. Spent the other night in a desperate little Quality Inn about five hundred yards off Route 84 in Sturbridge, Massachusetts, where every droning semi sounded like it was coming right through the bathroom wall, stacks blowing smoke and headlights glaring. But the first thing I did was to seize the little laminated channel card on top of the TV, and yes! Sho nuff! NESN on channel 37! Talk about your welcome back to New England! And a Red Sox welcome it was, as our guys managed to drop their fourth straight, this one by a score of 2–1. A real heartbreaker for Curt Schilling, who pitched like a hero after giving up that dinger.

Now a little editorial about Theo Epstein and his Moneyball-inspired gospel of the on-base percentage. I don’t know how much or how little of his team-staffing strategy comes from that book, but I do know you only have to look at the roster and listen to the chatter from the sportswriters to know that on-base percentage is very important this year. In the last four games (and, to some extent, in the Oakland Athletics’ postseason misadventures) you can see the strengths and weaknesses of the philosophy. God knows we’ve put enough men on base in this little skid; I count a total of twenty- seven left on in the four losses. Because, see, a player’s on-base percentage will never guarantee that player’s ability to get a key hit at a key moment. You saw it again and again in the game against Cleveland last night. Ortiz got it done once, with a double (I think on a warm summer night that ball’s a home run), but he wasn’t able to get Damon in with the tying run in the ninth. And who followed him? Was it Millar? Whoever it was just popped out, and there’s your ball game. You can argue that this five-game skid is just one blip in a long season and I would tend to agree—working on this book really makes it clear what a long march a season of baseball is; the first pitch already seems a year gone—but all those men left on base is an interesting statistic, isn’t it? It’s like cooking enough to feed a family reunion and then only actually serving three people.

Meanwhile, the Yanks are winning again. Guess Derek Jeter won’t have to hang up his spikes after all…but then, I never really thought he would. But we live in hope.

Chilly up here in God’s country, but still—great to be home.

SO: Welcome back to the land of boulders and cold water.

You look at a guy like Bellhorn, and he’s all about on-base percentage, working the walk early, middle and late, and he can still get the bat off his shoulder to knock a run in with a sac fly or a single. He’s the guy they hoped Jeremy Giambi would be. But you’re right, we need our big guys to be knocking these runners in. Ortiz is leaving lots of guys on. The problem is, once you get past Manny (by walking him or just not throwing him anything to hit), our five-thru-nine guys are struggling mightily. I don’t expect Pokey to carry that weight, or Kapler or Bellhorn, but Tek, Millar and Dauber (who popped up first-pitch hitting to end that game) have to produce out of the 5 and 6 spots. And Bill Mueller—who got shoved down in the order last night—just hasn’t been getting it done in the #2 hole. Lots of blame to go round. Our cushion over the Yanks is gone. Essentially, it’s a brand-new season. Dammit.

May 5th

Mr. Kim’s going tonight, his second start of the season. He’s shaky, but Big David hits a solo homer and then a three-run shot to give him some breathing room. Which we immediately give back when, on three consecutive plays, Kim uncorks a wild pickoff throw, Bellhorn lets an easy grounder through his legs, and Millar kicks a single around right field. It’s 5–5 and time for Mystery Malaska, who shuts Cleveland down. Bronson Arroyo’s next out of the pen. He’s in direct competition for the number 5 spot with Kim, and makes a statement by throwing two scoreless innings while risky David Riske comes in for Cleveland and surrenders a first-pitch three-run rainbow to Bill Mueller.

In the middle of the game, we switch to ESPN to check on the Pirates, who are facing Clemens, and find out that Piazza’s hit the homer he’s been waiting for so long, finally overtaking Pudge. The commentator says he’s now “the greatest home-run-hitting catcher in history.”

“No,” I correct him, “he just has the most homers.”

Each time Manny comes to the plate, everyone in Jacobs Field boos except for a woman’s tiny voice picked up by the microphone: “We love you, Manny.” With two down and two strikes on him in the ninth, the crowd rises,