I’m lucky enough to be in the front, in the middle.
“Welcome back,” I tell him.
“Thank you.” He’s surprisingly soft-spoken, you might even say shy.
“Have you noticed everyone’s been cheering the loudest for you, even here on the road.”
“It means a lot.”
I back off after he signs my ball, and see a Navigator with Illinois plates rolling up. I know Dauber’s the pride of Belleville, Illinois (along with Wilco’s Jeff Tweedy), so I call, “Your ride’s here.”
“Thanks,” he says, and he’s off.
When we get back to the hotel, I’m unwinding on the balcony when I see a woman on the beach in an old Lou Merloni shirt. “Loooooooo ooooooooouuuuuu!” I hoot, and she turns around but doesn’t see me.
For years Lou Merloni—the Pride of Framingham, Massachusetts—was our regular schlub and native son. He could play anywhere in the infield or outfield, and was a reliable pinch hitter. Someone would get hurt, and he’d end up starting, hit .330, and then sit when the guy came back. He was Nomar’s best friend, yet Sox management seemed to delight in shipping him down to Pawtucket and calling him back up, a crazy yo-yo motion. Two years ago we shipped him to San Diego, only to get him back in midseason.
Lou’s gone, off to Cleveland. Lou, who last year Ben Affleck (post-
March 7th
There’s no point trying to beat the crowd today. People will be camping out for this one. Scalpers line Edison like hitchhikers, holding up signs: I NEED TICKETS.
The lot’s almost full two hours before game time. People are tailgating, barbecuing on hibachis. A few rows closer to the park, four cotton-headed grandmothers in full Yankee regalia have their lawn chairs arranged under a shade tree.
Inside, it’s a mini-invasion. The Yanks have brought their A-team: Jeter’s at short and A-Rod, weirdly, is at third. It seems crazy to pay a guy that kind of money to play a corner. It must be ego: A-Rod’s got better range, a better glove, a better arm. Jeter seems to have lost his concentration the last few years.
A-Rod lets a grounder skip under his glove into left, and the crowd cheers.
I notice the Yanks have a #22—Clemens’s old number. After all Roger’s talk of wanting to go into the Hall wearing a Yankee cap, it seems a calculated insult. While the Sox haven’t officially retired his 21, it’s one of the few numbers that hasn’t been assigned.
I don’t see Giambi or Sheffield, and wonder if the Yankees are protecting them from us. Our seats are down the right-field line, and I’d been looking forward to listening to the fans peppering Sheffield and waving signs like JUICIN’ JASON.
There’s a commotion down by the Sox dugout, and a cheer. Nomar’s come out to shake hands with A-Rod. I only see their heads for an instant before the photographers swamp them. A few minutes later the scene repeats when Nomar greets Jeter.
The Yanks finish hitting—unimpressive except for this huge lefty I don’t recognize. No Giambi or Sheffield. Maybe they’re replacing their blood somewhere like Keith Richards did. And no sign of former Sox closer Tom Gordon, who would be sure to elicit a mixed reaction. I’ve got to ask Steve: Does that girl still love him?
Our lineup’s disappointing: Nomar’s sitting, so are Johnny D, Yankee killer David Ortiz and Dauber, and Trot’s still out. Bronson Arroyo, who threw a perfect game for Pawtucket, is our starter. He may not be Pedro or Schilling but he looks good in the first, getting Kenny Lofton, Jeter and A-Rod in order.
Kapler leads off with an easy grounder to Jeter, who throws it away.
“A-Rod’s smiling,” a guy behind me says.
Kapler steals on Contreras and scores on a single by Bill Mueller. Contreras slows the pace down to Cuban National Team speed, hoping to take away our momentum, but Ellis Burks smacks a single, Kevin Millar whomps a double and we’re up 3–0.
There’s a lot of taunting in the stands, and a Yankee fan snaps back, “Yeah, you guys are great in March.”
“What do Yankee fans use for birth control?” one guy asks, then answers, “Their personalities.”
In the bottom of the second, Pokey Reese, subbing for Nomar, takes Contreras deep. The Yanks bring in Rivera to stop the bleeding, as if this is Game 7.
The Sox counter with minor leaguer Jason Shiell, who melts down. Francona makes no concessions to the rivalry, or even the game. This is spring training, and he leaves Shiell in to see if he can fight his way out.
The big lefty who was blasting them in batting practice turns out to be veteran Tony Clark, who golfs a three-run shot.
“Let’s go Mets!” someone yells.
“Let’s go Tigers!”
“Let’s go Sox!”
The Yankees are still worried, it seems, because they bring in Felix Heredia to pitch the seventh and eighth. McCarty, who’s played the whole game, hits into a 4-6-3 double play in the eighth, making him 0 for 4. In the top of the ninth he blocks a hot smash at first, then kicks the ball away.
“How’s the weather in Pawtucket?” someone yells.
Hyzdu strikes out to end it. The final’s 11–7. Unsatisfying, but we did win the A game, knocking Contreras around, and Arroyo looked good.
Outside, we walk by the players’ lot, ogling a classic tomato-red GTO convertible. Someone says it’s Nomar’s, except he’s already left with Mia Hamm in her car.
A Jeep Cherokee with BK in it flies by us.
“You’re making friends,” someone shouts after him.
Several people confirm a new trade rumor: BK and Trot for Randy Johnson.
Most of the big names are long gone, but first-base coach Lynn Jones rolls down his window and signs, as does Cesar Crespo, driving a pimped-out Integra with Konig rims. Terry Francona doesn’t stop—“Another bad decision!”
A young guy pulls up in a Taurus. No one can place him. He stops and rolls down his window, but no one approaches.
“I’m only a rookie,” he says. “You probably wouldn’t want my autograph.”
He’s right, but we can’t say that to his face.
“Sure we do.” A couple of parents push their kids forward.
It’s Josh Stevens, a pitcher for the PawSox.
There are only four people left when we take off. It’s almost five.
Driving back to the hotel, I say, “I wonder if the Twins are playing tonight.”
“You want a divorce?” Trudy asks.
March 9th
We’re home, it’s snowing, and summer seems a long way off. Maybe it’s the weather, but that connection to the Sox that felt so strong just yesterday feels tenuous. I tell Steve it’s like getting a taste of high summer and then having it snatched away. By season’s end, I imagine it will seem Edenic, all possibility and perfect weather.
That night while we’re watching TV, Dunkin’ Donuts runs a commercial starring Curt Schilling. Schilling sits by his locker, eating a breakfast sandwich and listening to a language tape teaching him Bostonspeak. “Wicked hahd,” he repeats between bites. “Pahk. Play wicked hahd when I go to the pahk.” For several years now the spokesperson for Dunkin’ Donuts has been Nomar. Another sign he’s leaving?
