go home early,” Jerry grouses, and he’s right.
To start, Arroyo gives up a double to Soriano, but Kevin Millar makes a great snag of a liner at first to turn two and bail his pitcher out.
SK: God, but ole Bronson looked shaky in the first inning, didn’t he?
I’ve seen tonight’s plate umpire before. He played the World Champion Blind Lady in a revival of
That umpire is a serious Cheez-Dog. Hasn’t given pore ole Bronson one
Benoit’s thrown okay as well, but in the fifth Johnny hooks one around the Pesky Pole, and while Benoit gets the next three guys, they all hit the ball hard. In the sixth, he loads the bases with no outs. Tek Ks on three pitches before Bill Mueller hits a sac fly, and here’s Johnny again, poking a wall double to score two more.
SK: Arroyo looks like the real deal tonight, don’t he? At least through 7.
SO: Make that 8. [As I’m typing, Johnny hits one into the Rangers’ pen.] And Johnny is just smoking. 4 for 5 with 2 dingers, 4 RBIs and 3 runs. I don’t know what Papa Jack did before the Oakland series, but it stuck. Come on, D-Rays! (They’re finishing the first half with the Yanks, of course.)
We win 7–0, and it’s a fast game, as quick as Pedro’s two-hitter against the Pods.
SO: And there you have it, a nifty three-hitter, with Curtis the Mechanic throwing a lean and clean ninth.
So, you think we’re really going to try for Randy Jo?
SK: I think we’d be fools not to try for him. Hey, what harm? Throw all the lettuce into the Saladmaster, and let’s have some World Series coleslaw.
We got four, I want some more—
SO: Hey, if John Henry’s buying…
And in a briefly noted roster move, we send nice kid Lenny DiNardo down to Pawtucket and bring up veteran righty Joe Nelson, who didn’t pitch at all last year due to injuries. He’s the twenty-second pitcher we’ve tried in the first half.
July 10th
We’re driving the kids to camp in Ohio, a nine-hour jaunt. As darkness falls, we’re on I-90 west of Erie when Trudy’s cell phone plinks. It’s her father, excited about the game: Manny’s hit two out and we’re up 11–6
Later, during the Oakland-Cleveland game, we hear an update: Sox 14–6 over Texas in the eighth. Tek’s gone deep, and Nomar. Looks like five in a row, our second-longest streak of the season.
July 11th
Coming home, the only game we can pull in on the radio is the Buffalo Bisons and Durham Bulls, and all the way across the Southern Tier we listen to the Indians’ and D-Rays’ minor leaguers (including old Sock Midre Cummings) pay their dues. During a pitching change, the announcers dump the out-of-town scoreboard on us. “Up at Fenway, it was Texas beating the Red Sox six to five.”
“Shit,” I say. Notice that the first stage is anger, not denial—that comes later.
“The Yankees outlasted Tampa Bay—”
“Dammit.” I sag back in my seat, defeated. I really thought they’d pay the Rangers back with a sweep, maybe even pick up a game, but no, we win two out of three from a first-place team and lose ground.
July 12th
The recap in the paper is weirdly cheery, the writer giving us credit for fighting back, as if that proves the character of the team. We were down 5–2 in the bottom of the seventh when Doug Mirabelli hit a two-run shot and then Johnny D soloed to tie it. In the eighth, Foulke gave up a run, then in the ninth, Pokey, pinch-running, got picked off first. Everyone agrees that the ump blew the call, but they also agree that the ball beat him there, it was just a high tag. Shades of Damian Jackson pinch-running against the Yanks last year and getting picked off second. It’s great that we came back, sure, but that makes Foulke’s blown hold that much worse. He’s been shaky lately, one reason why the only games we win seem to be blowouts.
And Manny, listed on Francona’s lineup card, begged off at the last minute, saying his left hamstring felt tight, giving the columnists something to gnaw on.
In the wild-card race we’re still a game up on Oakland, with the Angels and Twins only a half back of them.
The Randy Johnson sweepstakes is on. The D-backs have the worst record in the majors, and Randy Jo’s forty years old and can’t wait for them to retool. The Sox and Yanks are interested, and possibly the Angels. The Unit seems to be having fun with all the attention, saying he can’t decide which chowder he likes best, New England or Manhattan. Really, it’s a no-brainer; Mr. Schill could tell him that. The guys who bring a title to Fenway will be folk heroes. In New York, he’d be just another hired gun. I mean, seriously, who’ll remember Jon Lieber?
Tonight’s the All-Star Home Run Derby, and Manny’s stepped aside to give David Ortiz his spot. El Jefe’s taken batting-practice pitcher Ino Guerrero with him to Houston as his secret weapon, but can’t find his groove. He hits a girder beneath the roof, a titanic shot, but it doesn’t count. He’s got five outs on him before he sticks one into the upper deck and ends up with three, not enough to make the semis. Manny jogs over and sticks a Yankee cap on Ino.
July 13th
Tonight is the All-Star Game, and I find that working on this book has turned me into a kind of ex officio ballplayer in at least one way: because my team isn’t playing, I have almost no interest in which show horse wins the make-believe contest.[27] Like the less stellar ballplayers, I’m just kicking back, watching some VH-1 (also some
I had intended to write some sort of midseason summary, and find I have little to write. That’s a good thing. Boston ended the first half winning five out of six and putting all trade rumors (except for that sweetly wistfulone that has Randy Johnson in a Red Sox uniform) to rest. Their won-lost record is almost exactly what it was at the break a year ago, when they went into postseason as the AL wild-card team, and indeed they lead the wild-card race this year by a game (over the Oakland Moneyball boys).
But still… the gloom. Why?
Because that Reverend Dimmesdale–Hester Prynne jazz in
