Confessions of a She-Fan (21 page)

Andy is at 58 pitches in the bottom of the third. He is laboring. Drew reaches on Giambi's second error, scoring Lowell. Boston goes ahead 2–0.

The Yankees score their first run in the top of the fourth when Matsui's triple scores Posada.

The Red Sox come right back in the bottom of the inning against Pettitte, who allows three more runs for 5–1.

Barry, our new friend from the asylum, has been relatively comatose during the game, but he wakes up to cheer for Pedroia.

“Dustin got off to a slow start, but he's gonna be great for many years,” he tells us.

“You're a big Red Sox fan, huh?” I say.

“I love the Red Sox,” he says with a child's adoration. “Do you?”

“Yes,” I say.

“Of course we do,” says Michael.

“Are you having a good time tonight?” he asks, his eyes hopeful.

It is such a sweet question and it is said with such earnestness that it takes me aback, and I reexamine my impression of Barry. He is very probably institutionalized, his life a complete mess, and yet he wants to know if we are having a good time. He is anything but creepy.

“We're having a very good time,” I say. “Fenway is quite a place.”

He nods. “I've never been here before.”

“Really?” I say. He loves the team so much but has never been able to attend a game. How sad is that?

He nods again. “This is the best night of my whole, whole life.”

His words are heartbreaking. Maybe I am nobody's number one fan. Maybe Barry is the real thing. He shames me with his lack of pretense. I am deeply moved by him, the way I was deeply moved by the man on the Royals Express. It is no small feat for either of them to get to the ballpark. And yet they not only show up but also don't boast about their team or disparage the opposition. Baseball is still magical for them.

I stop being cynical with my “Let's go, Red Sox!” chants. I keep quiet and let everybody boo the Yankees, who deserve booing tonight. The Red Sox are on course to win in humiliating fashion.

Veras relieves Pettitte in the bottom of the fifth. Two beach balls are batted around in our section. So much for my belief that Red Sox fans are purists when it comes to this sort of thing. Are rally monkeys next?

Dice-K departs in the top of the sixth, having thrown 120 pitches. Damon bloops a single off Timlin, scoring Posada for 5–2, but it feels like too little too late.

The bottom of the sixth brings more mediocrity for the Yankees. After Lugo singles off Veras, Ortiz is intentionally walked. Lowell flies to right, and Abreu nearly nails Big Sloppy wandering off first, but “lobster claws” can't handle the ball. ball. Youkilis singles, scoring Lugo.

Joe replaces Veras with Sean Henn. Drew singles, scoring Ortiz for 7–2. The Red Sox are piling on. It is grotesque.

After Lopez and Okajima shut the Yanks down in the top of the seventh, I tell Michael I think we should leave. He has been coughing and blowing his nose and looks pale. I am worried about him.

“Leave?” he says, shocked that I would even make the suggestion.

“I don't want you getting any sicker.”

“I'll be fine.”

“I've heard that before.”

“This is Yankees–Red Sox!”

I feel his forehead. It is hot. He should be inside, not sitting out here where the temperature is dropping by the minute.

“Our bullpen is about to give up a hundred runs,” I say. “What's the point of sitting here and watching that? I need to get you to the hotel.”

“What if the Yankees make a comeback?”

“Right. And pigs can fly. Let's go.”

He is gripped by a sneezing jag and starts to shiver. He concedes that he feels like shit. But leaving is not easy; we have to forge a path over Barry.

Michael taps him on the shoulder. “Would you mind getting up for a second so we can pass?”

Barry obliges. He is wobbly and it takes him a while, but he stands. He asks if we remember his name.

“Sure,” Michael says. “Barry,right?”

He grins. “Sorry, but I don't remember yours. Is it Joe?”

“It's Michael, but don't worry about it. It was a pleasure to meet you.”

Barry smiles at me. “Good-bye, Kathy.”

Once we escape the ballpark, it is a quick subway ride to our stop at Boylston Street. From there we only have to walk past the Ritz-Carlton—

“Wait,” I say, stopping in my tracks in front of the Ritz's restaurant and bar. Through the large window I can see a flat-screen television showing what I assume are highlights. ESPN broadcasted the game, so they are probably doing a wrap-up. “Let's check out the final score.”

Michael and I move closer to the window and peer inside.

“Oh my God!” I say.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” says Michael.

It is not a highlights reel. The game is still in progress! It is the eighth inning and the score in 8–7 in favor of the Yankees!

“How is this possible?” I say. “We left in the bottom of the seventh, and that was almost an hour ago.”

“I'm gonna kill you for making me leave.”

We stand there in the street with our noses pressed against the glass.

“What's going on?” asks a passerby.

“Yankees–Red Sox!” Michael says. “The Yankees are winning 8–7!”

“No way!” the guy says. “When I left Fenway they were losing.”

“
We know
,”Michael and I say.

More and more people gather at the window to watch. The maître d' of the restaurant flicks his wrist to shoo us away. We are annoying the patrons.

“Let's make a run for it,” says Michael.

“Right,” I say. “Go.”

When we get to the Hyatt's bar, we are not alone. Everyone has heard about the turn of events in the game, and now we are all glued to the TV. A waiter brings everybody up to date: the back-to-back homers by Giambi and Cano against Okajima in the top of the eighth; the walk to Melky and the double by Damon; Jeter's single and Abreu's double against Pap Smear to tie the game at 7–7; the single by A-Rod that put the Yankees on top 8–7.

We are now watching Pap Smear stalk off the mound in the top of the eighth and curse furiously into his glove.

Viz pitches a scoreless eighth, and Mo comes in for the ninth. When he gives up a leadoff single to Drew, I squeeze Michael's hand so tightly I nearly cut off his circulation.

“It'll be okay,” he says. “Have a little faith.”

Mo strikes out Varitek, gets Kielty to fly out, and strikes out Ellsbury for his 27th save.

It is an improbable game. A game that lasts 4 hours and 43 minutes. A game that brings the Yankees to within 4½ of Boston. A game that could change the course of the season.

Upstairs in our room, I help Michael into bed and take his temperature. It is 101. After I bring him some Tylenol, I sit on the bed next to him. I take a deep breath and feel tears prick at my eyes.

“It's over,” I say. “We're going home.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The Yankees just had the most miraculous comeback—the best game of the year. I've had my fun. I've seen them turn their season around. I've been part of the traveling carnival. But none of that is worth winding up in the ER at Mass General.”

“It's just a cold!” Michael coughs for one solid minute.

“With you, there is no ‘just.' Remember that fever you had last year? It started off as no big deal. The next thing I know you're being carted away in an ambulance. And don't give me the Roger Maris story.”

He glares at me. “If you want to go back to Santa Barbara, be my guest. I'm staying.”

“Oh, yeah?”I get up and glare back at him, the tears rolling down my cheeks now. “You're putting me in an impossible situation and you do it all the time and it's not fair!”

“Poor baby.”

“You don't take care of yourself, and I'm the one who suffers! I give up my dreams to clean up your messes!”

He sits up in bed, his face flushed with fever and fury. “Don't suffer on my account. Nobody asked you to do a goddamn thing. You treat me like a fucking child!”

“You act like one. I'm supposed to be researching a book. Instead, I'm standing here worrying about you!”

“Listen, I'm having the time of my life. These games are
my
joy,
my
passion. Do what you want, but I'm not leaving. I'm finishing what we started.”

“MAYBE YOU DIDN'T HEAR ME,” I yell, because I hate him and love him at the same stupid second. “I said I was willing to give all this up for you.”

He applauds mockingly. “I've been looking forward to this Boston series forever—the great seats for Sunday night, seeing my brother, all of it.”

“But you're sick!”

“I'll patch myself up the way I always do.” He sinks back against the pillows and coughs/wheezes/chokes. “You need to stop trying to control everything, especially me.”

“Fine. So what do you want me to do?”

“Whatever you want. I'm staying. There are risks in life.”

It is raining on Saturday morning. My first thought is whether Michael is
feeling any better, but I don't give him the satisfaction of asking. Instead,I muse out loud whether there will be baseball and whether I will find any takers for tomorrow night's tickets.

“Actually, why don't I just give them to Jake and his girlfriend?” I say. Jake is his brother Geoff's son and an avid Sox fan. I am proving what a saintly individual I am.

“They'll be very appreciative,” Michael says with a trace of a smile and calls his brother with the news. After he hangs up, he volunteers that he still feels crummy, but the fever is gone. “So. We're good?” This is his way of apologizing.

“We're good.” This is my way of apologizing.

Today's game is on Fox, so it has a 3:55 start. Our bleachers seats are better than last night's—section 37, row 25, in dead center field. The sun has emerged and it is a glorious, if chilly, afternoon. Michael zips up my red jacket and tucks my hair inside the hood.

It is Beckett versus Wang, who can't be thrilled about Giambi playing first base again—not with all the ground balls his sinkers induce.

In the top of the first, Jeter cracks a homer and the Yankees draw first blood. The Red Sox get the run back in the bottom of the inning on a Lowell single that scores Pedroia.

Wang is not sharp at all. He hits Youkilis on the right wrist in the bottom of the fifth, and “Yook” comes out of the game. Ellsbury, who goes in to run for him, moves to third on Ortiz's single. Drew's base hit scores Ellsbury for 2–1.

The Yankees bats are stone cold today. Beckett is at 93 pitches in the top of the sixth, and yet all they can manage are three straight groundouts.

In the bottom of the sixth, Hinske tries to score on Pedroia's grounder to Cano and barrels into Posada at the plate. Jorge is dazed but somehow holds on to the ball for the out. Ellsbury singles, scoring Crisp, and Ortiz doubles, scoring Pedroia and Ellsbury. It is 5–1. Joe comes out to lift Wang, who looks disconsolate.

Beckett hits Giambi with a pitch on the right elbow in the top of the seventh—obvious retaliation for the Youkilis thing—and the umpire warns both benches. Otherwise, the Yankees don't do much. It is absurd how feeble they are tonight. are tonight. I would say they are headed for certain defeat, but I said the same thing last night and look how that turned out.

In the bottom of the seventh, our bullpen is an abomination. Does anyone know how to throw strikes? After Edwar walks Drew and retires Variate, Joe replaces him with Villone, who promptly walks Hinske. Joe comes back out looking really pissed and calls for Bruney, last night's winning pitcher. Crisp doubles, scoring Drew. Lugo walks. Joe makes another trip to the mound, this time to summon Sean Henn. Ellsbury singles, scoring Crisp and Lugo. Big Sloppy walks, loading the bases for Lowell. Out pops Joe. He signals for Ohlendorf, who walks Lowell on four pitches, scoring Ellsbury for 9–1.

In the eighth, the crowd sings along to “Sweet Caroline,” complete with the “So good, so good, so good” routine that makes me want to stick needles in my eyes. eyes. Ohlendorf gives up a solo homer to Hinske for 10–1, which is the final score.

As I listen to the “Yankees suck” chants that rain down from every corner of Fenway, I can only shake my head. I should have followed my instincts and gone back to Santa Barbara. God is such a kidder.

“I'm hungry,” says Michael, as we head for the exits. “Where should we go to eat?”

“Back to the hotel,” I say, entwining my arm through his. “We'll order up some chicken soup for you.”

“No room service,” he says. “We're going out.”

I do not protest.

We decide on the Ritz-Carlton, since it looked appealing last night and is right around the corner from the Hyatt. We snag the last table for two.

“Good evening, young lady.” The waiter appears and greets me with a bow at the waist, reminding me of Mussina.

“I'd love a glass of wine.”

He brings me a glass of Syrah, which is delicious, but the salmon he brings later is so raw it is still flopping around on the plate. I send it back.

Michael's spaghetti Bolognese is perfectly cooked. He is eating with gusto when he looks toward the entrance to the restaurant.

“Brian Cashman just walked in,” he whispers.

I spin around to see if the person he thinks is Cashman is Cashman, but the wall of people waiting to get in blocks my view.

“He looks pissed off that there's a line,” Michael says, proud that he is the one to recognize somebody for a change.

“If we want to hold on to this table we'll have to keep ordering food, like we did at Spuntini. Are you feeling well enough for that?”

“I'm fine.”

Just then, the nearby table for four opens up. I fix my eyes on it,expecting to see Cashman sit there. The waiter comes back with my salmon and a speech about how busy the kitchen is. When he leaves, I see that there are now three men sitting at the table. None of them is Cashman, but one of them is a Yankee! Oh my God!