Confessions of a She-Fan (15 page)

He sits back down.

“Although it looks like it's cleared up in the Bronx,” I say.

He stands back up.

“But even if we leave immediately, it'll be another 45 minutes before we're in our seats, which will put the game in about the fifth inning. Is it worth it?”

He sits back down.

“But I paid for the tickets. It would be a shame—”

He stands back up and yells at me. “
What the fuck do you want to do!
”

“Sorry, but this is not a simple decision!”

“Of course it is!”

“I'm not interested in us getting soaked and you getting sick! Plus, I'm supposed to be on this mission. I should be like the post office! I don't want to be a dilettante who runs for cover when the going gets tough. We spent all this time and money, and for what? To sit here watching on TV like we could be doing at home? True fans are willing to do anything for their team.”

He smiles. “You know you're insane, don't you?”

“I know.”

He walks over, sits down next to me and puts his arm around me. “The measure of a true fan isn't whether you scream the loudest or notch the most number of games. You need to let go of all that.”

He takes off his jacket, turns up the volume on the TV, and settles in.

I regard him with wonderment. He sheds Rice Krispies and forgets to take out the garbage and talks over Anderson Cooper when I am trying to listen to the news. And then there are all his health problems. But he is the sanest, fairest, most loving person I know.

I kiss him, and he kisses me back.

“Here's a question for you,” I say. “Can I be a good fan and still be a good wife?”

“I think there's hope for you.”

We snuggle up together and watch the game. The Tigers only score one run off Pettitte, and Giambi homers twice. Joba relieves in the ninth and sends the Tigers home with a 6–1 loss. A happy ending all around.

The rain is gone on Saturday, and it is gorgeous and sunny.

Peter Abraham passes along Kim Jones's e-mail address. I send her a note asking for an interview. He says she is really nice, so I am optimistic.

Today's contest against the Tigers is being televised nationally on Fox, so it has a 3:55 start. We get to the Stadium early, in plenty of time for the Military Appreciation Day pregame ceremonies. I am so glad to be back after missing last night's game that I smile at everyone, even the mean security guard who gives me a pat down before letting me in.

We are in Tier 15, row S—not quite as high up as Thursday night's seats, but further up the right-field line. No matter. We are in the perfect spot to view the show by the US Army's Golden Knights Parachute Team.

Clemens is making his first start since his suspension. The Rocket gives up a homer to Maybin, Detroit's prized rookie, and expresses his displeasure by hitting him on the wrist his next time up. Abreu's two-run shot puts the Yankees up 5–2. Farnsworth relieves in the seventh. As usual, his reception from the crowd is chilly. But he strikes out Sheffield and Ordonez and leaves to chants of “Let's go, Farnsworth!” When Mo comes in for the ninth, you can feel everyone tense, as if fearing another uncharacteristic meltdown. But he gets his 20th save, and the Yankees win.

Michael and I linger for a while as the crowd files out. We hold hands and sing along to “New York, New York.”

Sunday is our last day of this home stand. I sleep a little later, do some packing, turn on the YES Network, and watch the Yankees sweep the Padres in the '98 World Series. I love watching the “classics” where the Yankees never lose. It is like watching
Pretty Woman
, where Julia Roberts always ends up with Richard Gere.

For this afternoon's finale against the Tigers, the crowd is the biggest yet. We are in Tier 3, directly over home plate, but in row X, the very top row. I surprise myself by not bitching about getting stuck up-up-up there. What happened to the person whose idea of heaven was sitting in the front row next to the Other Jane Heller? What happened to the writer who thought it was imperative that she watch the games from the press box? What happened to the princess who
would not be caught dead in the nosebleed section with the peons? She is sort of glad to be sitting exactly where she is.

Wang faces Bonderman today. With the Yankees ahead by 2–1 in the top of the fifth, he comes undone—a couple of singles, a balk, a walk, a wild pitch—and the Tigers go up 3–2. Joe lifts him in the seventh after Damon's solo shot has put the Yankees ahead 4–3. It is Joba Time. Chamberlain has yet to be scored on and has become a folk hero, eliciting huge cheers before he even gets to the mound. He has been mowing hitters down, and today is no different.

With our 9–3 victory, we take three out of four from the Tigers and are now
four
behind Boston.

On Monday morning
we are off to JFK for our 8:40 United flight to LAX. We are not flying into John Wayne Airport in Orange County, even though the Yankees are playing the Angels tonight in Anaheim. We are not, in fact, going to Anaheim—not yet. We are flying into Los Angeles, renting a car, and driving to Santa Barbara.

We are going home so Michael can have a nurse administer the medication he receives in an IV infusion every 8 weeks for his Crohn's. The drug, which is called Remicade, helps him manage his disease, but it is also the reason he can't fight infections. Medications have their downsides, but we are lucky that Michael has been on the road for a month without incident. We are also lucky that his scheduled infusion coincides with the three-game series in Anaheim. We will watch the first two games at home, catch the last one at the ballpark, and fly to Detroit with the rest of the Yankees' traveling carnival.

Aboard our Boeing 757, we are offered beverages, and I pass.

Michael is shocked. “No garbage chardonnay at 9:30 in the morning?”

I shake my head.

Once we land at LAX, we rent a silver Chevy HHR and drive 2 hours to our house. We are relieved when we finally pull into the driveway—until we get out
of the car and inhale. The air is filled with smoke and ash. Apparently, the Zaca Fire is still burning. I call Dorothy to say we are home and ask her about the fire. She says that we're safe, but the air quality is awful, and we should keep our windows closed.

Although it is comforting to be home, it feels odd, too, almost as if I am a stranger in my own house. One of the things I love about where we live is its peacefulness, which is why I keep asking hotel clerks for quiet rooms. But now that I am back in paradise, I miss the noise, the hubbub, the tumult of the road. What is wrong with me?

By 7:05 Michael and I are in the green Barcaloungers, ready to watch the first game between the Yankees and the Angels. It is just like old times, except that I have outgrown the TV experience. I want to see what goes on during the commercials. I even miss the smell of beer and hot dogs.

Boston has already beaten Tampa Bay, and Seattle has trounced Minnesota. The pressure is on the Yankees not to lose ground.

Hughes goes six-plus and gives up three runs, but it is the relief pitching that does us in. After A-Rod's 40th homer puts the Yankees up 4–3, Viz allows three runs to score in the seventh. Posada hits a two-run shot in the eighth to tie the game. Hip hip, Jor-hay! Farnsworth is on the mound for the bottom of the eighth, and we go into extra innings.

The Yankees can't score in the top of the ninth off K-Rod, that little twerp, and the Angels can't score in the bottom of the ninth off Mo. This contest is not settled until the bottom of the 10th.

We lose 7–6. I hate the Angels almost as much as I hate the Red Sox.

When I wake up on Tuesday, I am disoriented. There is no slamming of guest room doors. No humming of elevators. No clattering of room service trays. Instead I hear birds chirping.

Michael has his Remicade infusion, and I have my first-ever telephone reading with Reverend Sandi, a spiritualist/psychic/medium with a church in Santa Barbara. My friend Deborah gave me her number back in May, when I was frantic about whether the Yankees would turn their season around. But then they started winning, and I figured I would stick with my lucky clothes and lucky food and daily prayers. But now, with the wildfire still burning and the Yankees still stonewalling me, I need metaphysical help.

I begin by asking Reverend Sandi about the Zaca Fire and whether it is safe for me to leave home again. She assures me that the fire will stay away from my
neighborhood. My next question is about the book. Reverend Sandi does not like sports but says that her spirits tell her the book will be very successful.

“It will?” I say.

“Wrong answer!” she scolds. “You need to say: ‘It
will
!'” She instructs me to picture the book at the top of the bestseller list and imagine myself at a signing where hundreds of people are lined up. She tells me to visualize the scene as specifically as I can, right down to what I will be wearing. I dress myself in a very fetching Armani suit.

“I'm having trouble with the Yankees,” I say. “I need help getting access to the players. My book depends on it.”

“Write a letter to the Universe,” she advises. “Just jot down:
I need access to
the Yankees!
Then put the letter in an envelope and keep it with you while you travel. The Universe will help you.”

After she and I finish up, I realize that I did not press her enough. I could have asked her if A-Rod will stay in New York and if Mo will retire in pinstripes and if the Yankees will make it to the postseason and win the World Series. But I am not sure I want to know the answers.

While Michael rests after his infusion, I settle into the green chair and watch Yankees–Angels. The matchup tonight is Mussina versus Escobar.

Moose is off to a shitty start, and the Angels go ahead 2–0. A-Rod homers in the top of the second, and the bats do come to life. But Mussina gets shelled and the relievers are pathetic, and the Yankees lose 18–9. The pitching is just not good enough for the postseason. I don't need Reverend Sandi to tell me that.

We lock up the house on Wednesday and hit the road again. We drive south on the 405.

“Jason Zillo should be swinging open the door for me instead of slamming it in my face,” I say to Michael. “The Yankees have been doing much better since I came along.”

“They have,” he agrees.

“I'm not only their number one fan. I'm their lucky charm. And yet he still won't deign to talk to me!” I am getting riled up—and with good reason. The other day I e-mailed Jason to ask if he would let me interview him. I thought it might be interesting to find out what the Yankees' media relations director actually does. No reply.

We arrive at the Hyatt Regency Orange County. A large bellman carries our bags up to our room.

“How far is it to Angels Stadium?” I ask him.

“You going to the game tonight?”

“Yeah.”

“Should be fun.” He laughs. “We always kill the Yankees.”

We leave for the 7:00 game at 4:30—nice and early so Michael can take my picture in front of the stadium and we can have an early dinner at the Catch, the restaurant everyone has told us to try. I would have sampled the fare at the concessions, but the local TV news reported that there are rats running rampant at Angels Stadium.

Our seats are in section V 431, row C, in the upper-upper deck and next to the right-field foul pole—really crappy. Before the game starts, we are forced to watch girls in skimpy clothes loading air guns with balled-up T-shirts and shooting them into the crowd. This is what passes for entertainment in Anaheim.

Good old Andy is pitching tonight. He seems to pick the team up after every losing streak. His opposition is John Lackey.

A buxom blonde sings the national anthem, during which fireworks go off from the fake-looking rock pile in center field. As for the stadium itself, it is smack in the middle of an industrial park or corporate development. It has about as much charm as a hunk of concrete.

There is no score until the top of the fourth. A-Rod comes home on Lackey's errant throw to first. A little boy in the seats in front of us asks his father, “How come people are talking to each other instead of watching the game?” I want to step in and break the news to the boy that there is no Santa Claus and that Angels fans are easily distracted. But I keep quiet.

The Rally Monkey makes its first appearance on the scoreboard in the bottom of the sixth. For those who have never had the pleasure, it is a real monkey dressed in an Angels uniform, and it jumps up and down to cheer its team on. Does it get any worse than this? Where is the organ grinder? I think about calling the animal rights people because the poor primate is being humiliated.

The Yankeesgoup4–1 in the top of the eighth. Lackey departs for Scot Shields, who gives up two more runs. A fight breaks out in the bleachers, and it is a drunken Boston fan that gets tossed. Angels fans chant, “Red Sox Suck!” and are enthusiastically joined by Yankee fans.

Joba comes in for the bottom of the eighth. He electrifies everybody by striking out Vlad on a 100 mph fastball to retire the side.

With the Yankees ahead 8–1 in the bottom of the ninth, I am surprised to see Mo on the mound. But he gets Mathis to fly out to end the game.

I hug Michael as the crowd files out.

“Was that because you love me or because the Yankees won?”

“Both.” I hug him tighter. “And because it's good to be back on the road.”

Thursday is getaway day and an off day. Our flight lands in Detroit at 8:30 p.m. We drive off in our rented Kia Sorento. It is raining and hard to see, and we take several wrong turns before finding the Hyatt Regency in the suburb of Dearborn.

Before joining Michael in bed, I check e-mail. There is still nothing from either Kim Jones or Jason Zillo.

“What do I have to do?” I rant. “I'm a writer, not a serial killer, and yet all I do is beg for crumbs from these people. I'm the Yankees' number one fan and I can't get near them.”

Michael pats the side of the bed. “How about calling it a night, good wife?”

I get his drift.

The buzz in the New York sports media on Friday is how critical the series is between the Yankees and Tigers, because both teams are fighting for a wild-card berth. There is also speculation about what the Yankees will do about Mussina. He is said to have spoken with Joe after the disaster in Anaheim about whether he will lose his spot in the rotation or be given one more shot against the Tigers.

Today is my lunch with Tyler Kepler from the
New York Times
. I have only a vague idea of what he looks like, having checked out his photo on the
Times
' “Bats” blog this morning. I don't read the blog regularly, but I never miss his articles in the
Times
. He tells you everything you need to know about a story or game in a particularly intelligent, elegant style.

I meet Tyler at the Marriott's RiverCafe in the Renaissance Center down-town. In my last e-mail I had described myself to him as having long blond hair and dark circles under my eyes. He walks right over to my table, so I must be the only one here fitting that description.

He is a fresh-faced, 32-year-old man with glossy dark hair, large blue eyes, and a very neat, preppy appearance.

After we order lunch, he tells me about his childhood in Philly,how he covered the Angels and the Mariners before starting at the
Times
on the Mets beat, how he always tries to be fair to the players he writes about instead of resorting to cheap shots.

“What do you think about Mussina's situation?”I ask. “Do you think he'll stay in the rotation?”

“I think he's one of the most underappreciated pitchers of his era. The last two games got away from him real early. But for a long stretch he gave the team a chance to win every game.”

“Do you like him as a person?”

“Yeah. He's so thoughtful in explaining himself and the reasons why things happen. People think he makes excuses, but I think he gets a bad rap. He's candid, and it's hard to get candor.”

“I bet it's hard to get candor from Jeter.”

“I think Jeter's got it all figured out. I wouldn't like it if everyone gave the same kind of answers, but I really appreciate having one guy like that.”