Faithful

a follower of Bill James, he likes these men for their defense and their on base per centage (OBP).[30] He also likes them because Nomar Garciaparra is in the last year of a contract currently paying him $11 million a year, and resigning him probably would have been tres expensive. Stories about how Nomar’s feelings were hurt during the failed A-Rod deal are probably no more than the usual baseball bullshit, but here’s something that isn’t: both Nomar and his agent know that baseball is a business. They also know that an athlete’s period of top earning ability is severely limited when compared to, say, that of a corporate CEO (or a best-selling novelist), and I have no doubt that Nomar and his man of business were determined to Make ’Em Pay this fall, whoever ’em turned out to be. Theo Epstein just decided ’em wasn’t going to be us.

Does that make sense? I’m sure it does to Theo Epstein, and it probably does to those of the Billy Beane bent. It does, in other words, if you see big league baseball as a business…and nothing else. Who it does not make sense to is my five-year-old grandson, who was watching ESPN when SportsCenter announced the trade. Ethan is a big Nomar fan. He always pretends to be Nomar when he’s hitting in the backyard, when he’s throwing, when he’s running the bases.

So it’s Ethan I’m thinking about as I write this—not his mother (the converted Yankee fan), not Nomar himself, not even the Red Sox, the putative subject of this book. Nope, I’m just thinking about Ethan.

“Nomar’s a Cub,” he said, then watched the TV for a while. Then, very softly, he said: “I guess I like the Cubs.”

Good call, Ethan.

Very good call.

I’ve just finished my good-byes when my sister-in-law says I’ve got a phone call. It’s Steve.

“They traded Nomar,” he says.

“Aw shit,” I say, partly because they fooled me. It’s almost five o’clock. I thought I was safe.

“To the Cubs. I think we got their shortstop and maybe a pitcher.”

Alex Gonzalez is a decent shortstop, and we’ve been looking at starter Matt Clement, maybe to take Arroyo’s place or to assume the middle role. I relay the news to the boys, and they switch back to the game.

Steph runs in. “We got Cabrera and Mientkiewicz.”

“So it was a three-team deal.”

“So Nomar’s gone to Red Sox West,” Steve says. “My five-year-old grandson’s been in tears. ‘But I still like Nomar,’ he says. ‘I guess I’m a Cubs fan now.’”

I think we must have gotten Clement, since our real need is middle relief, but Steve can’t find anything on the website. Nomar for Mientkiewicz and Orlando Cabrera of the Expos (so it’s a four-team deal). It doesn’t seem like enough—and we’ve already got three first basemen and three journeyman shortstops. It must have been a panic move on Theo’s part, dumping Nomar before he could walk (it’s just like the Yawkeys: not wanting to pay a star top dollar and getting nothing for him).

While I’m still on the phone, Steph tells me the Yanks have gotten last year’s Cy Young runner-up Esteban Loaiza from the White Sox for Jose Contreras. It’s a steal, even with George’s three million thrown in—a panic move on Chicago’s part that doubly benefits the Yanks. So we got hosed on both deals.

Steve’s off to see The Village, I’m off to drive a hundred miles. After I hang up, I feel like the season’s over, like we’ve given up.

On the road we tune into ESPN radio and hear that we got speedster Dave Roberts from the Dodgers for outfielder Henri Stanley, who just signed balls for us in Pawtucket on Monday. It’s a good deal, but not large enough to make up for the loss of Nomar.

The Sox without Nomar. It seems like a defeat, whoever’s fault it is.

During the pregame, Theo talks about how we needed to fix our defense, as if that’s what drove the deal. Then, because we have nowhere else to put him, we start Millar in right even though Kapler’s been hot. (Steph notes that the music behind his highlights from last night is Tenacious D’s “Wonderboy.”)

The game is anticlimactic after the video of Nomar leaving the clubhouse for the airport. The announcers—all of them paid by the Sox—put the best face on the deal they can, picking at Nomar’s attitude and his heel. Where’s Eck when you need him? (Cooperstown, being inducted.)

Lowe throws okay, so does Radke. The biggest moment is when Doug Mientkiewicz steps to the plate for the first time in a Red Sox uniform. Mientkiewicz is a lifelong Twin, and the Metrodome rises and gives him a noise-meter-worthy ovation. He has to step out to collect himself, and I realize we never had a chance to say good-bye to Nomar (we didn’t know it, but that Sunday-night game against the Yanks was his last home game).

It’s a close game late, tied in the eighth when Embree comes in with one down and the bases empty to face lefty Jacque Jones. He gets behind him, then aims a fastball. Jones cranks it, flipping his bat away. The ball lands ten rows back.

Joe Nathan, throwing 98, closes with the help of Francona. Mientkiewicz singles to open the inning; Kapler pinch-runs. Millar, who should be bunting, swings away. On an 0-1 count, Kapler goes and Henry Blanco guns him by ten feet. Millar flies out. It’s a terrible at-bat on all counts, an embarrassment. Bill Mueller then steps in and pulls a long shot down the line—foul. He singles (it would have easily scored Kapler), then takes second on a wild pitch before Youkilis strikes out.

Overall, just a tough day to be a Red Sox fan. Seems like everywhere we turned we did something stupid and got our asses kicked.

There are sixty games left, and we’re pretty much where we were last year. It’s time to put a stretch drive together. Or else.

August THE HOTTEST AUGUST ON RECORD

August 1st

Let the juggling begin. Cabrera reports; to make room we send down Andy Dominique. Since we’ll see four lefties over the next five games, David Ortiz drops his appeal and begins serving his suspension for the bat-throwing incident in Anaheim. Millar’s at DH, McCarty at first and Kapler in right—or would be, except Johnny tells Francona during BP that he’s having trouble picking up the ball because of the afternoon sun further lightening the Metrodome’s translucent white roof. So Johnny is the least DH-like DH in Sox history, Kapler’s in center and Millar’s in right.

Cabrera’s batting third, which I think is a mistake, but in the first, in his first at-bat as a Red Sock, he takes Johan Santana deep. Then in the bottom of the inning he can’t handle a chop over Pedro’s head.

It’s a tight game, like last night’s. Kapler guns Corey Koskie at home, but Tek bobbles the throw and Koskie steamrolls him. Torii Hunter goes back to the wall and casually robs McCarty of a home run. The next inning, McCarty makes a diving stab of a Hunter shot down the line. Manny hits a solo blast to give us the lead again, but the Twins use smallball to scratch back even.

To lead off the seventh, Santana hits Tek. To get more pop in their lineup, Matthew LeCroy is catching instead of Blanco, and Tek steals on him. LeCroy wings the ball into center—Tek to third. Millar then hits a high, medium fly to right. Center fielder Torii Hunter races over to take it from Jones, since he’s got the better arm. He’s in position behind him, but somehow they don’t communicate, because Jones never yields. He takes it flatfooted and his throw is up the first-base line, and Tek scores standing up.

Pedro’s brilliant through seven, striking out 11. Santana goes eight, ringing up 12.