Faithful

Casey Fossum), vets on the way down (the execrable Matt Young; the puzzling Ramon Martinez; the scuffling Frank Castillo; the iffy John Burkett), or guys in the middle just trying to hold on (usually junkballers like Al Nipper or Wake). The recent number five fad is the converted closer (Derek Lowe, Anaheim’s Kelvim Escobar), which makes more sense, giving a shot to a guy who actually has good stuff—as opposed to the normal borderline number five guy stuff—and hoping he develops into a number two or three.

All number five guys have promise, otherwise they wouldn’t be in the majors, but it’s rare to see one over the age of thirty bloom into a solid starter, the way ex-Sock Jamie Moyer did in Seattle. More often, the number five who exceeds expectations isn’t the vet or the phenom (he’s already a number one or two, like the Cubs’ Kerry Wood or Mark Prior) but a guy in his mid-to-late twenties getting his second shot and putting it all together, the way Bronson Arroyo does tonight.

Arroyo’s skinny as a stick, but he’s no kid. At twenty-seven, he’s been a pro for ten years, signing with Pittsburgh out of high school and rising through their farm system, seeing limited action with the big club for parts of three seasons until they waived him before spring training last year. He pitched brilliantly for Pawtucket, earning a September call-up, and threw so well—especially against the Yankees—that we made room for him on our playoff roster. This year, with Kim out, by default he became our number five guy, and though his record’s only 7-9 (partly due to lack of run support, partly to our weak middle relievers), his ERA is 4.07, a full run better than Lowe’s, just .29 behind Pedro—better, in fact, than all the Yankee starters except Kevin Brown. Tonight he has his curve working and shuts down the Tigers for 7 1/3, giving up only an unearned run in a clutch 4–1 win. On the mound he’s contained but assured, then almost cocky, sauntering off after striking out the side, as slow as Pedro. It’s the kind of performance that makes you wonder if he’ll turn into a number one someday.

August 27th

As previously noted, the Boston baseball writers are masters of the bad vibe, maestros of dark karma. If cast away on a cannibal isle, I have no doubt they would soon be kings…at least until reduced to dining upon each other. Hardly anything seems to knock them off-stride—how could it, when they cover a team which has been denied the ultimate brass ring for eighty-six years?—but one thing that does give them pause is a protracted winning streak. When Bronson Arroyo notched last night’s win over the Detroit Tigers, he helped make the Boston Red Sox nine for their last ten, and the Hub sports pages were flooded with sunshine, most of it thin enough to… well, thin enough to read a newspaper through.

Leave it to Dan Shaughnessy to find a reassuring dark spot; just the right familiar note of negativity. In today’s Globe column (untrustworthily titled “Dark Days Appear to Be Long Gone”), Shaughnessy says, in effect: “Does all this winning upset you? Does it leave you with a feeling of vertigo to get up in the morning and discover the Sox have won yet again? BLAME NOMAR!” That’s right; blame Number 5, now living it up in Chicago under a different number. Shaughnessy dates the current roll of distressing good times (ooh, my tummy hurts, somebody pass the Dramamine) from July 31st, the day of the Big Trade. Never mind the two horrible losses that followed on its heels, or Orlando Cabrera’s terrible struggle to find his feet in the field and his stroke at the plate as he plays for the first time in years in front of a live audience. No, it’s Garciaparra’s fault, and why? Two reasons. First, because management pulled the trigger and management has to be right. Second, because we have just got to find the dark lining inside this silver cloud. How else can we define ourselves as Cursed, for God’s sake? I think George Orwell said it best in his classic allegory, Baseball Animal Farm Team: “Orlando good, Nomar bad.”

Now—have all you little piggies got that straight?

SO: You know how fantasists talk about the willing suspension of disbelief? After tonight’s win over the Tigers (the 10th in our last 11 games, the 16th out of the last 20), I’m experiencing an INVOLUNTARY suspension of disbelief. Knock wood.

And yet, the Angels won their ninth straight to stay a half game back. Seems like we never have room to catch our breath.

SK: Yow! Given the first four months of the season, and the continuing injuries, who would have BELIEVED the August this team has turned in? It is un-fucking-real. September could be a fade, but we at least have a tame sked in the second half. Meanwhile, the series with the Angels (don’t touch ’em, you’ll blister your frogging fingers) is shaping up to be mini-Armageddon. I repeat: Yow!!

Stew—do you believe this shit? It is TOO FUCKING GOOD TO LAST and TOO FUCKING GOOD NOT TO.

SO: I was thinking yesterday that the team has shown a lot of character, and I can’t remember when there was as sweet and wild a chase as the one shaping up. Some real scoreboard-watching. Way it’s been going, I just assume the other three are winning out West. The A’s are just as hot as the Angels. Damn you, Billy Beane!

August 29th

I recently read an interesting note from a sports psychologist—can’t remember who or where, or I’d be happy to attribute it. Anyway, this guy said that when the local team wins, they’re we, as in we beat the Tigers last night for the third time straight. When the locals lose, they’re they, as in can you believe how lousy they were in July?

You can call Boston’s recent spectacular run—eleven Ws in the last thirteen games, if my math is right—as a lesson in just how great the disparity is between the haves and the have-nots in the American League, but that would ignore the so-so way they played against the same clubs earlier in the season.[41] It also ignores the fact that we’re doing it now with many players either on the DL or going out there hurt.

It’s a great run, and probably Stewart’s and my e-mails show this best. I hope he’ll lay a couple of those daffy suckers in here. (“Waaba-waabawaaba, do you beleeeve this shit, Steve?” and I’m back with “Waaackawaaacka-waaacka, no fuckin’ WAY!”) And, to top things off, Anaheim finally lost a game yesterday. That means that when the Red Sox/Angels showdown—mini-Armageddon—starts on Tuesday at the Fens, we’re guaranteed the wild-card lead, and if things go the way I’ve got them planned, that lead will be up to two and a half games.

Even the folks at Scribner, who commissioned this book (at no small cost, either, hee-hee), have stopped crying doom. For the time being, at least.

SO: You going for the sweep today? Wakey-wakey, eggs and bakey.

SK: Shhhh, no Wakey-wakey. Just Tim-MAY.

No wakey them Tigers.

We won again yesterday behind a strong outing by Pedro, and this afternoon there’s a carnival mood around Fenway. Manny, who fouled a ball off his knee and missed last night’s game, comes out for batting practice wearing coach Ino Guerrero’s #65. In the field Manny’s manic, flashing how many outs there are to Johnny, to the family section, to the Monster. In the fifth, down 1–0, he comes up with bases loaded and two out, and the crowd rises, chanting, “MANN-y, MANN-y.” First pitch, he drills a single to give us the lead. Ortiz rips another, then Millar. Wake throws eight strong, and the party doesn’t stop.