Confessions of a She-Fan (3 page)

After the sweep at Fenway
, I start watching the games with a new wariness—an increased sense that this team, with its undeveloped rookies and its creaky vets, does not have it.

Here is why: On the 23rd and 24th, we lose two to the Devil Rays at Tropicana Field. If that is not the depths of misery, I don't know what is. Igawa stinks up the first game, allowing seven runs. And Wang, fresh off the DL, starts the second game, only to have Myers serve up a grand slam to Carl Crawford.

Joe Torre says it is too early to panic, but the Yankees are officially panicking. They announce that Phil Hughes, the pitching prospect whose golden arm was supposed to get a full year of seasoning down on the farm, will make his major league debut versus Toronto on the 25th. It feels like a desperation move instead of a promotion.

It is on this night that the insomnia starts. I don't sleep well when the Yankees lose, but I don't sleep at all when they are in the cellar.

The first of the two-game home stand against Toronto is rained out on the 25th, so Hughes makes his debut on the 26th. He is not the phenom I was hoping for. We lose 6–0. Now the bats are cold, too. According to
Michael Kay on the YES Network, the Yankees are off to their worst 20-game start since 1991.

I picture the Yankees team from 1991. They were a sad, sad group that year except for Mattingly, but—come to think of it—I didn't get upset about losing in those days. I was still the sort of fan who enjoyed watching them no matter how badly they played. No rants about whether they were trying hard enough. No superstitious behavior in an effort to nudge them to victory. No gnashing of teeth. No insomnia. I just loved them and that was that, to honor and to cherish, for better or worse.

That is also the year I starting dating Michael. I was separated from my second husband and renting a house in Connecticut and figuring I would be off men for the rest of my life. I was 0-for-2, after all. But then I was set up with Michael at a friend's dinner party, and he called a few days later, asking if he could stop by.

“Thanks, but I'm really busy right now,” I said.

“With what? It's Sunday afternoon.”

“I'm watching a Yankees game. They're getting killed, but they could always come back.”

“I'm a Yankee fan,” said Michael. “I'll watch the game with you.”

“If you want.”

Even then I put baseball first. I don't know why he didn't run like hell in the other direction, but instead he drove right over.

I fell in love with him for many reasons. He is a guy's guy who knows about race cars and can fix household gadgets and thinks being on a sailboat during a storm is fun. He is also a sensitive soul who is not afraid to tear up when something moves him. It didn't hurt that he had a bearded-photographer,
Bridges of Madison County
hero look that I found rather appealing.

But I also fell in love with him because we shared a passion for the Yankees.

“When I was 13, I broke my ankle playing football with my friends,” he told me that Sunday afternoon. “My father wanted to take me to the hospital, but I just knew Roger Maris would hit his 60th home run that day. I refused to go until the game was over.”

I almost said “I love you” right then and there. But we continued to watch the Yankees get creamed, and I kept my emotional outbursts focused on my team.

“I like how you're not all about winning,” he said when he saw how hard I cheered.

Poor guy. As all too often happens with couples, he thought he was marrying one person and ended up with someone else.

On Friday the 27th, the Yankees host the Red Sox for the first of three games at the Stadium. Having barely recovered from the last series against them, I am not looking forward to this one.

“I'll die if we get swept again,” I tell Michael as the game starts.

“Stop being so negative,” he says before going outside to fire up the grill. We are having barbecued chicken for dinner. The spaghetti and the turkey burgers did not help us beat Boston last time, so I insisted on a change in the menu.

The barbecued chicken is a bust. We lose ugly—11–4—with Pettitte allowing five runs. Proctor, Vizcaino, and Mo are awful, too. Yes, Mo. The only bright spot is Jeter's 15-game hitting streak.

We actually win the Saturday game 3–1, although there is more bad news. Karstens gets smacked in the knee in the first inning by a line drive off the bat of Lugo. A cracked fibula. I am not making this up!

The rubber match on Sunday is a horror show—a 7–4 loss thanks to Wang and the split fingernail that is inhibiting him from throwing his good sinker. I know pitchers are fragile creatures, but am I supposed to believe that the Yankees can't find a medical professional to deal with a fingernail? At the very least, Mrs. Wang must have a good manicurist and/or a tube of Krazy Glue.

The New York papers are fueling speculation that Joe could be out of a job if the team continues its free fall.

“Hopefully,we can catch a good streak here real soon,” Damon is quoted as saying.

I have come to like Johnny Damon. I loathed him as a Red Sock, of course, but he is always upbeat and cheerful and usually makes contact at the plate. Abreu, on the other hand, is high on my shit list. He is in the worst offensive slump of his career, and he plays right field as if he is terrified of getting his uniform dirty. Just once I would like to see him dive for a ball.

“They need someone to motivate them,” I tell Michael as he turns off the TV. “I wish I could talk to them.”

“And say what?”

“That there is behavior I will not tolerate.”

He rolls his eyes, lifts the cordless phone off its cradle, and hands it to me. “Call the dugout. Maybe they're still there.”

He is joking, but I am not. I grab the phone. “What's the area code for Tampa? I'm calling Steinbrenner.”

“You've turned into a female George.”

“There are worse things,” I say. “He's a great owner.”

“A great owner?”

“All those championships wouldn't have happened without him,” I say. “He spoiled me. I'm used to winning now.”

There. I said it. I am used to winning. If there were a 12-step program for Yankee fans whose innocent passions became hardcore addictions in '96 when we began our run under Torre, I would be chairing the meetings.

“My name is Jane, and I am a Yankeeholic.”

Yesterday the Boss issued a statement
through Howard Rubenstein saying he supports the manager and the team. Like all Steinbrenner Statements, this one carries a not-so-veiled threat: The Yankees had better start winning or else. I could not agree more.

But it is anew month and afresh start for the Yanks. They open a three-game series against the Rangers in Arlington. On May 1, we kick Texas around 10–1. Phil Hughes throws a no-hitter going into the seventh for his first major league victory but leaves the game with a hamstring injury. Can you catch hammies the way you catch herpes? And Damon is out with a back problem. The guy is going all Carl Pavano on us.

May 2 is my birthday, and the game is rained out, which means I am forced to actually celebrate my big day by leaving the house. Michael takes me to the Plow & Angel at the posh San Ysidro Ranch in Montecito. The waiters bring out a dessert with a candle on top and sing “Happy Birthday” to me. I am mortified because I am not the type who enjoys being sung to by waiters and because I am at that age where it is not a huge thrill to be another year older. Forget what all those rah-rah baby boomer women say about how great it is to have wisdom and experience and disposable income. I would rather have fewer wrinkles and perkier tits.

We play a doubleheader on May 3 to make up for the rained-out game, and we win both contests. Pettitte gets the victory in the opener, and Mussina, just activated from the DL, allows only one run over five innings. I take back the nasty things I said about him, but I wish I could warm to him. He is serious whenever he is on TV, kind of sourpussy. I wonder if he bows from the waist during sex, the way he bows out of the stretch.

We are home for a four-game set against Seattle this weekend, and the results are mixed. The Friday-night game on May 4 is an abomination. We lose 15–11, and the Mariners have 20 fucking hits. I boo the TV. Michael boos, too, and he hardly ever boos the TV. We rebound with an 8–1 victory on Saturday, with Wang missing a perfect game by only five outs. Sunday's game involves a near-brawl after the Mariners bean Josh Phelps for his hard slide into Johjima, their catcher, and Proctor returns the favor by throwing behind Betancourt. Darrell Rasner and four relievers combine for a four-hit shutout, and the Yankees win. But the big event is the announcement during the seventh-inning stretch that Roger Clemens, who speaks to the masses from George's private box like the pope, will return to the Yankees in late May/early June.

I am conflicted about the Rocket's return. I don't blame the Yanks for wanting reinforcements. But why bring back a guy with a history of groin problems and hammy problems and God knows what else? He is old in pitcher years. Besides, we threw him a farewell tour when he was retiring 2 years ago, only to have him unretire and play for the Astros. What kind of scumbag does that to the Yankees? What kind of slimy, ungrateful worm leaves and then comes crawling back?

While I wait for Clemens
to take his spot in the rotation, I am saddled with more rookies. The latest is Matt DeSalvo, no relation to Albert DeSalvo, the Boston Strangler, as far as I know. He only allows a run in the May 7 finale against the Mariners, but Mo serves up a homer to Beltre in the ninth and takes the loss. I love Mo and can't imagine my Yankee fan life without him, but I love him more when he strikes batters out with his rising cutter. At least Igawa is out of the picture now. He is sent down to Class A Tampa to learn how to pitch here in America. He is in danger of becoming the next Hideki Irabu. George will not call him a fat pussy toad because Howard Rubenstein is speaking for him these days, but I am thinking that a putdown involving the word
pussy
would not be entirely out of line.

Texas comes into town for three games. Pettitte pitches a gem in the first game. Mussina looks like his old self in the second. But the finale on the 10th results
in an embarrassing 14–2 loss in which Wang allows seven runs in 6⅓ innings. He is supposed to be our ace, but his inconsistency is emblematic of the team as a whole. We cannot get a streak going. We are stuck in mediocrity while the Red Sox are cruising. I grind my teeth so hard that I knock my jaw out of alignment.

The Yankees fly to Seattle for the start of a nine-game road trip. The change of scenery will be good for the players, the way a change of scenery is good for people who are sick and convalescing. But the Yanks lose two of three to the Mariners. What is alarming about all three games is that we don't score. First the pitching was impotent. Now the bats are limp. As for me, I am descending into a state of perpetual crabbiness, as if I have a chronic case of PMS. I am short with people. I don't return phone calls right away. I curse a lot—for no good fucking reason. This is what the Yankees are reducing me to. They are not holding up their end of the bargain. They were supposed to be my escape, and they are not doing their job.

What do I have to escape from? That is what you are probably asking yourself. I write all these funny novels and live in paradise and am married to the sensitive manly-man from
The Bridges of Madison County
. What's the problem?

Crohn's disease. That is what Michael has. It is an autoimmune disease that can cause the intestines to become inflamed and, ultimately, obstructed, and it is not pretty. I had never heard of it when Michael and I met in 1991. When he told me he had it, I shrugged and said, “Love conquers all.” Love does not conquer Crohn's. He has had more than 30 surgeries, been hospitalized more than 50 times, and taken countless drugs, including steroids. He has spent more time doubled over in pain than anyone I know. He is at constant risk from complications. He is always one step away from the emergency room. He is the one who suffers and soldiers on, and I am merely the helpmate. But I would be lying if I said that living with a spouse who has a chronic, incurable illness is not difficult and often depressing. It is hard on a marriage, in other words. When the Yankees are winning, it gives me the illusion that there is no Crohn's and life is
beautiful. But the Yankees are not winning. They are not delivering my required dose of denial.