It’s the revenge of the header: MUSSINA LEADS YANKS PAST ANGELS, 6–2. We lose ugly to a last-place club while they beat the team with the best record in baseball (and on top of that, beat their ace, Colon). At least the O’s lost; otherwise it would be a total wipeout.
I’m trying to be optimistic and look ahead, but tonight it’s Arroyo versus Halladay. Our travel day knocked the two rotations out of sync, so Pedro’s facing the lefty Lilly tomorrow. On Sunday, the game we’ll be at, we get the far less interesting Wake versus Miguel Batista. We need two out of three from these guys, but right now the pitching matchups are in Toronto’s favor. Halladay’s stronger than Arroyo, and we have trouble against lefties and historically don’t give Pedro much run support. Wake-Batista’s a toss-up.
Maybe it’s just last night’s game that’s bothering me. If Arroyo can match Halladay and get us to their pen, we should win, and Pedro’s flat-out better than Lilly. Batista’s ERA’s around 5 and, like Zambrano, he walks a lot of batters. If we hit and Wake has the knuckler fluttering, we could sweep.
The off-field news is that Johnny’s shaving his beard for a literacy program at the Boston Public Library. Gillette’s sponsoring the event to kick off their new line of razors. A crowd gathers on the plaza by the Prudential Center to watch some hot models lather him up. He sits still while they take the blades to his face, but in the end he finishes the tricky spots himself. He looks younger, baby-faced, and with his long mane he’s got the Elvis-as- Indian-brave thing going on.
Dee-Lowe was dee-readful, but tonight the Red Sox are back at the Fens, and for the first time this year I’m in the house. It’s a beautiful night for baseball, too, sixty-nine degrees at game time.
Ray Slyman, who works for Commonwealth Limousine and has been driving me and my family to Red Sox games ever since the kids were small, is usually an optimist about Boston’s chances, so I’m surprised—no, I’m shocked—to find him sounding downbeat tonight, even though last night’s loss coupled with the Yankees’ win on the West Coast has left us only half a game out of first. It makes me uneasy, too. Partly because Ray’s in the car all day and listens to all the radio sports shows (discounting the crazies who call in as a matter of course); thus he’s hip to all the current gossip. Mostly because Ray’s one smart cookie. It’s from Ray that I first hear the idea that Nomar should be back
Coming into the ballpark, lots of folks tell me hi. Most call me Steve.One woman tells her boyfriend, “Look, there’s Steven Spielberg!” This is more common than you might think, and I sometimes wonder if people point at the famous director and tell each other that it’s Stephen King. The guy selling programs just outside Gate A pauses just long enough in his spiel to ask me how I’m feeling. I tell him I’m feeling fine. He says, “Do you thank God?” I tell him, “Every day.” He says, “Right on, brutha,” and goes back to telling people how much they need a program, how much they need a scorecard, just two dollars unless you’re a Yankee fan, then you pay four.
Yes indeed I do. I’m blessed to be alive at all, and have the sense to know it. It’s especially easy to give thanks walking into Fenway Park under my own power on a beautiful spring night in May. (“We’re inside the TV,” I once heard a wondering child say after getting his first look at all that green.) I’m still considering the novel idea of Nomar Garciaparra as the designated hitter when a woman cardiologist throws out the first pitch. She may be a hell of a doc, but she still throws like a girl. We all give her a big hand, and we give the Red Sox a bigger one when they hit the field in their fine white home uniforms. I feel the same thrill I did when I saw them go out there for the first time, at the age of eleven or twelve, on an afternoon when the Tigers were their opponents and Al Kaline was still playing for them, and my arms prickle when John Fogerty starts singing “Centerfield” over the PA. They prickle again at the end when the Red Sox put away the Jays, 11–5, and the crowd starts out with the Standells singing “Dirty Water.”
Every ballpark has its eccentricities. One of my Fenway faves—many fans hate it—is the late-inning playing of Neil Diamond’s “Sweet Caroline.” I have no idea when this started or why fans took it to their hearts (it’s such a
Man, I had a great time tonight. Manny Ramirez hit a moonshot, Mike “The Hardest Workin’ Man in Showbiz” Timlin got the win, and I was there to see it all with my friend Ray. Oh, and Kevin Youkilis, aka The Greek God of Walks, was up to his old tricks. In the bottom of the second inning, after getting behind 0-2, he fouled off a bunch of pitches from Roy Halladay, last year’s Cy Young winner, and finally worked a walk. He scored. Later, in the eighth, he walked and scored again.
It’s an OBPC thing: on-base per centage.
May 22nd
When they don’t announce the game-time temperature at Fenway, you know you’re in trouble, and tonight they didn’t. It was overcast and raw at 7:05 P.M., when the game started; raw and downright cold[15] when it ended at about ten past ten. I still haven’t warmed up. At 10:45, I’m typing this with hands that feel like clubs.
Ted Lilly pitched extremely well for the Blue Jays tonight, and had a two-run lead going into the sixth inning. That was when Manny Ramirez launched his second home run in the last two games over the left-field wall and into the night. It’s the big dinger that’ll get the ink in the newspapers tomorrow, but the key hit of the inning—and probably the key to the whole game—was Mark Bellhorn’s infield single in the sixth, which caromed off Lilly’s shin, hurried him from the game, and thus got us into Toronto’s less than reliable bullpen. Without Bellhorn on first, no chance for Manny to tie things up; QED. And an inning later, Youkilis, the rookiewith the big on-base- average reputation, led off with a single and scored what proved to be the winning run. Keith Foulke was once more lights-out in the ninth—nine saves in nine opportunities—and I’m two for two this year at Fenway Park.
And my hands are finally starting to warm up. See? It’s all good.
May 23rd
It’s Vermont Day at Fenway, and we’re the first ones in Gate E. Last time out I was discouraged by my net play, and the usher in Section 163 told me not to give up. He’s glad to see me back, and I’m glad for the support. Steph thinks I’m nuts.
We get the good spot on the corner, but there’s a portable screen set up at third base so only a hooking liner can reach us. And the security guy says I can’t go after any balls in fair territory, a rule which seems arbitrary to me.
The only balls I’ll have a shot at will be liners that bounce off the Monster and back along the wall, and about ten minutes in, that’s exactly what Nomar hits. The ball rolls to a stop twenty feet behind us. No one can reach it
