Faithful

Three: Change the station when the game is over. Just as soon as the final out is recorded I punch in Channel 262, better known as Soapnet. No way am I waking up to NESN’s SportsDesk these days, even though I know I may be missing the always fascinating Jayme Parker. No, for the foreseeable future, I’ll be catching up on All My Children while I shave and do my morning exercises.

Meantime, good news—and it has nothing at all to do with me saving a bunch on my car insurance. It looks like the current BoSox skid is going to end at four—it’s the top of the ninth, and Boston’s leading Atlanta 6–1. Curt Schilling’s on the hill for the Sox, looking for number eleven. He’sbeen our most reliable pitcher, because that sucker’s not just good, he’s lucky. Tonight Doug Mirabelli came up with two outs and the bases juiced, and although the Sox have been horrible all year in that situation, tonight was Mirabelli’s night—he put one over the fence to dead center, and that should be lights out for this light-hitting Braves team.

Mr. Tripp, who owns the local general store, gave me a T-shirt today that says RED SOX on the front and I SUPPORT TWO TEAMS, THE RED SOX AND WHOEVER BEATS THE YANKEES on the back. I wore it for tonight’s game, and I intend to wear it again tomorrow. And every day until they lose. (I also intend to keep on watching All My Children on Soapnet instead of SportsDesk on NESN for the foreseeable future. Less stress.)

July 4th

After losing the other night, Anastacio Martinez is shipped back to Pawtucket, making room for Theo’s newest acquisition, former Pirate Jimmy Anderson, a finesse lefty who last pitched for the Iowa Cubs. He’s not the solution to our middle-relief problems, and I think Theo’s pulling a Dan Duquette, trying to get away with cut-rate band-aids. If he really wants a quality arm, he’s going to have to give up something.

I’m reading on the beach when my nephew Charlie says the Sox are winning 4–1. I wander into the house to see for myself and watch as Lowe gives up a walk, an infield single, another walk, a groundout by pitcher Mike Hampton that scores a run, a single, a double, a single. We’ve all seen how quickly Lowe can melt down, and throughout this sequence we’re begging Francona to lift him, yet for most of it there’s no one warming up. Francona lets him throw to lefty Chipper Jones, who predictably sticks one in the bleachers. It’s 8–4, and everyone around the set is swearing. Francona finally calls on new guy Jimmy Anderson, who walks his first batter on four pitches, then gives up a double to Andruw Jones and a triple to Charles Thomas. I’ve only been watching for ten minutes and Atlanta’s sent ten guys to the plate.

“Can they fire a manager in the middle of the season?” Charlie asks.

SK: Sox getting roasted 10–4. When I snoozed off, it was 4–1 good guyz. This be bad. Another day, another shellacking by a sub-.500 club; another series lost to same. It’s time for Terry to go while there’s still a season to save.

Bring back Tollway Joe.

SO: Francona the Terryble. Bet the Globe and Herald scribes are sharpening their instruments.

At least the Mets sweep the Yankees (their fans chanting, “We’re not Boston”)—and on a horrible call. Late in a close game, Cairo hits one to the right side that Piazza can’t reach. It gets by him and hits Posada. The first base ump rules him safe; the crew chief overturns it. Torre comes out to argue, to no avail. The rule is that if a fielder’s had a chance to handle the ball, then the runner’s safe. The crew chief decided that Piazza hadn’t had a chance in the official sense, and that the second baseman might, and was therefore deprived of the chance to put Cairo out by the ball hitting Posada. Torre protests the game. And while the Yanks were the recipients of dozens of homer calls from the umps during our last series (including the noncall on that 0-2 count to Cairo that would have ended Wednesday night’s game), I can’t help but be annoyed at the incompetence. Get it right, Blue.

July 5th

The All-Star teams are announced. Schilling, Manny and David Ortiz made it—no surprise. What is shocking is that the three players implicated in the BALCO scandal—Bonds, Giambi and Sheffield—are all starting. Nice job, fans. Way to clean up the game.

Is life simpler, as Americans like to believe, down on the farm? We’re hoping, driving through a monsoon to see the PawSox, whose ticket office assures us the weather will clear up and they’ll get the game in. They almost do. At one point the grounds crew has the tarp off and is raking sawdust into the infield dirt, and Anastacio Martinez and Ramiro Mendoza and Frank Castillo and Mystery Malaska warm up down the third-base line. But by the time we have the ceremonial pitches (it’s Latino Day) and Dauber and Adam Hyzdu and Big Andy Dominique come out to stretch, it’s misting again, then straight-out raining, and two hours after game time, they call it, to halfhearted boos. So it really is a day off: no baseball at all.

July 6th

Tonight the Sox open a three-game series with Oakland, one of their chief wild-card opponents, and for the time being, at least, Boston’s postseason hopes are all about the wild card. Tonight will also be Boston’s eighty-first game of the year, which puts them almost exactly at the halfway point of the season.

Any real analysis of the first half will have to wait until the All-Star break, but I think it’s fair to say that I have rarely seen the feeling in my little corner of New England turn so quickly, so decisively, and so almost poisonously against our only major league club. Who knows, by the time the All-Star break comes around, I may be willing to drop the almost. This sea change isn’t that hard to understand. What we have here is a team filled with high-priced talent, much of which started the season on the disabled list. The team did well out of the gate nevertheless, contending in rather spectacular fashion in large part with the scrappy hit-’n’-field skills of guys like Bellhorn, Youkilis and Reese to complement the booming bats of Ramirez and Ortiz.[26] Then, just as the big boys started getting well, the team got sick. If it’s going to get better again, the convalescence must begin soon.

How bad is it right now in what sportswriter Dan Shaughnessy has dubbed Red Sox Nation? I peeped in at NESN’s SportsDesk this morning (I felt I could do this without too much fear of damaging my fragile sports superego because the Sox were idle yesterday) and was horrified to hear Sox- approved commentator Mike Perlow bandying Red Sox–Marlins trade rumors concerning Nomar Garciaparra and Derek Lowe. Of course there will be trade gossip as long as there’s pro baseball, but because NESN is a quasi- official arm of the Red Sox organization, one is tempted to sense palsied fingers (perhaps on the hand of Red Sox general manager Theo Epstein) creeping toward that red button marked PANIC.

My decision to tune in NESN (Channel 623 on my satellite hookup) was clearly foolhardiness masquerading as bravery. The thought of Nomar in a Florida Marlins uniform is dismaying, almost nauseating. After no more than five minutes, I made haste to Soapnet and All My Children, where Erica is currently enduring the world’s longest alcohol intervention,Babe is in the hospital recovering from something her boyfriend JR (with a nickname like that you know he’s a rat) put in her drink, and no one, so far as I can tell, is in danger of getting traded to General Hospital. Right now that makes it a safer, comfier world.

Wake versus Barry Zito doesn’t sound fair, but in the second, Billy Mueller launches a three-run Monster