SCRIBNER 1230 Avenue of the Americas New York, NY 10020 Copyright  2004 by Stewart ONan, Stephen King All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. SCRIBNER and design are trademarks of Macmillan Library Reference USA, Inc., used under license by Simon  Schuster, the publisher of this work. DESIGNED BY ERICH HOBBING Text set in Adobe Garamond Library of Congress Control Number 2004063398 ISBN13 9780743272445 ISBN10 0743272447 Dirty Water Words and music by Ed Cobb. Copyright  1965 (Renewed) by Embassy Music Corporation (BMI). International copyright secured. All rights reserved. Reprinted by permission. I Put a Spell on You Words and music by JAY HAWKINS. Copyright  1956 (Renewed 1984) EMI UNART CATALOG INC. All rights controlled by EMI UNART CATALOG INC. and WARNER BROS. PUBLICATIONS U.S. INC. All rights reserved. Used by permission. Warner Bros. Publications U.S. Inc., Miami, Florida 33014. Visit us on the World Wide Web httpwww.SimonSays.com For Victoria Snelgrove, Red Sox fan  Contents Introduction by Stewart ONan Spring Training Welcome to Next Year AprilMay Who Are These Guys? June The June Swoon July Turn the Page August The Hottest August on Record SeptemberOctober Hangin Tough The ALDS Somebody Gotta Pay The ALCS Beyond Thunderdome The World Series The Possible Dream Acknowledgments Boston Red Sox 2004 STATS Down by the river, down by the banks of the River Charles. Thats where youll find me, along with muggers, lovers and thieves. THE STANDELLS I put a spell on you, cause youre mine. SCREAMIN JAY HAWKINS Introduction I wasnt always like this. I was born a World Champion, a thirdgeneration Pirates fan, in early 1961. A few short months before, the Bucs had taken the heavily favored Yankees to Game 7 in Forbes Field. The Yanks seemed to have the series in hand, up 74 in the eighth when Bill Virdon hit a simple doubleplay ball to short. As Tony Kubek charged, the ball took a bad hop off the alabaster plaster, hitting him in the Adams apple, and both runners were safe. Two singles later, it was 76. The next batter, backup catcher Hal Smith, caught up to a Bobby Shantz fastball and parked it over the leftfield wall for a 97 lead. But the Pirates couldnt close it out, surrendering two in the next frame. With the game tied at nine, second baseman Bill Mazeroski led off the bottom of the ninth. He took the first pitch from Ralph Terry for a ball, and then, as every Pirates and Yankees fan knows, Maz cranked a high fastball over Yogi Berra and everything in left, and the fans stormed the field. As a longtime Red Sox fan, I appreciate this history even more now, but, as a kid then, my perspective was limited. Living so close to the reallife setting of the legend (our library was right across the parking lot, and wed walk over and touch the brick wall the ball cleared), I grew up pitying the Yankees as hardluck losers. As the 60s turned into the 70s, nothing happened to refute this. We won it all again in 71, beating an Orioles team with four 20game winners, and made the playoffs nearly every year before succumbing to the Dodgers or the Big Red Machine. Roberto Clemente, tragically, was gone, but his spirit lingered over the Lumber Company, a colorful and monstrous offensive club that included hitters like Willie Stargell, Dave Parker, Al Oliver, Richie Zisk, Rennie Stennett and Manny Sanguillen. Earl Weavers Os and Charlie Finleys As ruled the AL. The bumbling Yankees, like the Brooklyn Dodgers or New York Giants, belonged to a flannel, whitebread past, hopelessly square. About the time George Steinbrenner took them over, I traded my interest in baseball for cooler high school pursuits music and cars, girls and cigarettes. I noticed with an offhand disgust that the Yankees had bought the heart of the As dynasty to win two cheapies, but it didnt mean much to me. I was too busy messing around to bother with a kids game. That probably wouldnt have changed if the Pirates didnt go and win it all again in 79. I was going to school in Boston, lost in engineering problems and partying, but one of my best friends was an Orioles fan. Game 7 was excruciating for him. Just like in 71, they were playing in Baltimore, and just like in 71, the threerun homer the Os were waiting for never showed up. Rather than rub it in, I did my best to console my friend. Thats just how it went with the Pirates in Game 7like the Steelers in the Super Bowl. By Opening Day of 1980, the glow from winning it all hadnt worn off, and, living two blocks from Kenmore Square, I decided to take advantage of the neighborhood and visit Fenway Park for the first time. I didnt expect much. AL ball back then seemed boring to me, a slow, lowscoring game like soccer (since then, the leagues have swapped styles, maybe due to the DH, or the AL teams new, smaller parks), but bleacher seats were only three dollars. The park reminded me of longgone Forbes Field, with its green girders and cramped wooden seats and oddball dimensions. And that wall, the top hung with saillike nets to catch home run balls. It made me think of the wire screen in right and the way Clemente anticipated every weird carom off it, gunning down runners chugging into second. And the Sox surprised me. They played like an NL cluball hitting, no pitching. No speed or defense either. The stars of the great 75 and 78 teams were gone, sacrificed to free agency by the oldschool Yawkeys. The only survivors were Jim Rice, Dwight Evans and the fastaging Yaz, anchoring a lineup of journeymen. They were a slower, less talented version of the old Pirates, a Lumbering Company, just hoping to outslug the other team. They werent good but they werent really bad either. They were entertaining, and Fenway provided me with the amenities of an actual parka green space in the middle of the city where I could pass the hours reading and doing my homework. I watched the games and I liked the team enough, but I didnt kid myself that they were contenders. And that was okay. Between championships the Pirates went through long stretches in the cellar. This was better, skirting .500. The farm system was in good shape, and eventually wed develop some pitchers. You could say I didnt know what I was getting myself into, but game after game I happily shelled out my three bucks at the barred ticket window outside Gate C and staked my claim to Section 34 in straight center, right beside Channel 38s camera, where you could call balls and strikes and let the opposing center fielder know he was on the road. The Sox werent a tough ticket then, and I was surrounded by a scruffy tribe of regulars. My favorite was the General, a scrawny, grizzled guy in his late twenties with rotten teeth who wore a squashed Civil War cap and challenged all comers with his portable Othello board. And then there was the husky dude with receding hair who always came late with his dinner in a Tupperware bowl and bellowed, WAAAAAAAAAAAAADE! After the 84 season, I left for a job on Long Island, and was living there when Roger Clemens and the 86 club made the playoffs. I was there for Game 6 of the World Series, deep in the heart of Mets country. I remember us being one strike away again and again. I was ready to jump up from my chair and dance. It was late, and I was watching by myself, the TV turned down so it wouldnt wake the baby. When the ball rolled through Billy Bucks legs, I heard the cheers of my neighbors. One pitchsay, one of Pedros changeupsand I wouldnt be writing this. But no, we placed our faith in Calvin Schiraldi (who blew leads in both the eighth and the tenth in Game 6). Ive been to disappointing games since thena string of playoff losses to Cleveland, the phantomtag game in the 99 ALCS, last years PedroZimmer brawlbut none of those teams, no matter how far they went, even last years overachievers, were true contenders. We were always at least two players away, and one of those was usually a closer. Even in 86, the odds were on the Mets (who, if you remember, were touted as one of the greatest teams of all time, a claim that now seems like the New York hype it was). This year was different. With the addition of Curt Schilling and Keith Foulke, it looked like we had the horses. Months before pitchers and catchers were scheduled to report, the pressure on the team was already intense. Anything short of a World Championship would be considered a failure, and with the new owners trying to juggle too many highpriced contracts (including Nomar and Pedro in the last year of their deals), it appeared this was the only shot the Sox would have for a long time. Add to that a new, largely unproven manager, Terry Francona, whose previous experience with the Phillies had been less than successful. After last years Game 7 debacle, the front office (led by whiz kid and Bill James disciple Theo Epstein) canned the Chauncey Gardnerlike Grady Little, the latest in a parade of weak field managers with no input into personnel moves. Francona inherited a team with several notorious prima donnas, a brutal local media and a demanding fan base. He had a threeyear contract, but if he didnt produce a winner immediately, he knew he might as well pack his bags. Along with those overarching dramas, there were questions about how the failed ARod deal would play out with Nomar and Manny Ramirez. The Yankees also picked up former Sox closer Tom Gordon, who they hoped would be the missing setup man theyd needed since promoting Mariano Rivera to closer. The Sox were still hoping Ramiro Mendoza would come around, and submariner ByungHyun Kim, but, emotionally, Sox fans were pulling harder for prodigal sons Brian Daubach and Ellis Burks. (Daubachs drama started early he was a nonroster invitee to training camp, and, as has been the case his entire career, had to scrap to stay in the majors.) And of course there was the question of Pedro and his shoulder, Pedro and his back, Pedro and his mouth. Plus whatever controversy came up. This Sox clubhouse, like the Yankees back when they had personality, was known for soap opera. It would be an interesting year, whichever way it went. If the Sox contended, all of New England would catch pennant fever. If they tanked, the carnage would be spectacular. Either way, Steve and I would be following them, watching them, listening to them, taking in games at Fenway, reading the box scores, checking the website, discussing them endlessly with friends and family and total strangers. Like any devoted Sox fans, wed been waiting for this season since the end of Game 7, and our hopes were both impossibly high and cautiously guarded. Because as much as we love them, the Sox had broken our hearts over and over, and that probably wouldnt change. But what if? No one expected the Patriots to ever win a Super Bowl, let alone two. Our rotation was the best in the majors, and we actually had a closer now. Last years offense had outslugged the 27 Yankees. More than any team wed fielded since 78 (that wonderful, terrible season), this squad had a bona fide shot. In February, before a single pitch had been thrown, millions of us believed this would be the year. This book should reflect the depth of our obsession as well as how quickly the tone of a season changes. To get the emotions while they were fresh, the book is in double diary form. We didnt chase the team like journalists, looking for total coverage. We just did our best to have a regular Soxfilled summer. For each day or game that we naturally came in contact with the Sox and found something remarkablefrom spring training to the very last outwe wrote separate entries or reflections. Besides the diary entries, for games or streaks that especially thrilled us or pissed us off (and with the Sox, we didnt lack for those), weve attached spurofthemoment email exchanges that show us firmly in the grip of the beast, feeding it. In baring our relationship with the Sox, we hope to illuminate readers feelings for their own favorite teams. We also hope theres something funny about owning up to the silliness of obsession yet being unable to break free of itlike Woody Allen or David Foster Wallace being painfully aware of their neuroses even as they navigate situations bound to freak them out. Sox fans are like any anxious sports fans, except we have good reason to be paranoid, so that even an 81 laugher against Tampa Bay can turnin a matter of a couple of base runners, a couple of knuckleheaded pitching changesinto pure torture. And like hardcore followers of any sport, Sox fans are expert at taking a game apart and examining its most intricate components, especially when the worst happens. We knew all of this coming into the 2004 season, and yet, for all the heartbreak, there we were again, psyched that Tommy Brady and the Pats might show up on Opening Day the way they did in 2002. Fenway was sold out for the season, and ticket prices on eBay were through the roof. The Sox and Yanks were both stocked and talking smack, from the front office down to the scalpers. The waiting was overfinally, it was next year. Stewart ONan, February 29th, 2004 Spring Training Welcome to Next Year February 21st After the Schilling acquisition, and during the ARod negotiations, I felt distinctly weirdout of kilter as a Red Sox fan. I started to think, Im going to come back to a team of superhero strangers wearing Red Sox uniforms. Who are these guys? It was a dreamlike feeling, both pleasant and unpleasantlike getting gas at the dentist and knowing its going to hurt like almighty hell later on. Then the ARod deal fell throughthe same old Red Sox problem lots of cash, just not quite enough cash. And the Yankees got him. And the tabloids gloated. And even the New York Times, that supposedly staid gray lady, got in a crack; the Yankees, one of their columnists said, continued to show the Red Sox how to win, winter and summer. That was when the unpleasant dreamlike feeling burst, and I woke up to real life, smelling not the coffee but the peanuts and Cracker Jacks Ah yes, screwed again. Hello, world, Im a Red Sox fan. For better or worse, Im a Red Sox fan, and Ive just been screwed again. Same as it ever was. So bring on the Yankees, and may Alex Rodriguez bat .240. Were going to spring training, the whole family. Its a surprise, my birthday present, a long weekend in Fort Myers. Ive always wanted to go, ever since I was a kid in Pittsburgh listening to the Bucs warm up in sunny Bradenton. Trudy says shes sick of listening to me yap about it, so here it is, a folder with the plane tickets, the hotel reservations, the rentalcar agreement. We cant afford it, but I cant say that. And theres the envelope with the game tickets and the diagram of City of Palms Park. Were going to see the Sox play their traditional game against Boston College on Friday, then the first game of the year against the Yankees Sunday and finally a Monday game against the Twins, who also train in Fort Myers. I forget about the money for a second and check out where were sitting. I hit the Sox website to find out more about the training complex. I figure my son Steph and I can hang out and watch the players while Trudy and Caitlin beach it. I check the schedule, thinking the BC game is the very first of the spring. Its not. Were playing the Twins at their place on Thursday. I go to their website and buy four tickets for it. Were also playing Northeastern at home on Friday night. I buy four more. February 23rd My brother John calls from Pittsburgh and asks me who he should draft from the Sox for his AL fantasy team. Hes a Pirates fan and doesnt follow the junior circuit closely. Personally, I dont like fantasy leagues, the way they make you root for individual players over team performance, but I do my best for him. Keith Foulke should get forty saves no matter how badly he pitches. Last year you told me Mendoza. Bronson Arroyo. Hes no good. At least he wasnt when he was with us. Who else? Pokey Reese. We had him. Hes always injured. I hang up feeling unhelpful, all of my arcane knowledge useless. Second base is the one big question mark this season, besides not having a lefty starter. Pokey Reese has missed the better part of the last two seasons with leg and thumb injuries. Hes a little guy, a speedster who played option QB in high school, but suddenly hes become delicate. He could be the Gold Glover he was a few years back and hit a respectable .260, or he could tank. Already the Sox are looking at Mark Bellhorn, Tony Womack and Terry Shumpert as insurance policies. Nomar says hes excited about playing beside such a slick fielder. Every spring it seems he says the same thing, because its been ten years since weve had the same Opening Day second baseman in consecutive seasons. We let playoff hero Todd Walker walk. Rey Sanchez got the boot after a decent year. Before that we had Jose Offerman, exgeneral manager Dan Duquettes laughable answer to losing Mo Vaughn. Duquette, youll remember, is the genius who said Roger Clemens was in the twilight of his career and let him go off to Toronto, where he won backtoback Cy Youngs. In the 80s there was continuity at second. Jerry Remy, Marty Barrett and Jody Reed all enjoyed long stays, and were fan favorites (Jerry still is, doing color for NESN). Duquette, trading our top prospects yearly in his attempt to build an instant champion, stripped the farm system, and now our second basemanlike our closeris a replacement player. February 25th Im trying to get tix for Stewart (and Stewarts wife Trudy) and me to the annual game pitting the Red Sox Bteam (invitee Brian Dauber Daubach should be starting for the Sox) against the Boston College baseball team. Ordinarily these would be a slam dunkprime real estate up in Owners Country at City of Palms Park, and maybe a couple of spots among the Escalades and Navigators in the players parking lotbut my main man, Kevin Shea, has moved on, and so its nervousmaking time. How about the satellite connection? Can I get New England Sports Network (aka NESN, aka The Home of the Free and Land of the Eck) down here? Yes. Thank God. But my subscription from last year has lapsed. Oh shit. And how many spring training games will they carry, anyway? Oh shit, maybe Joe Castiglione can help me with tix to the SoxBC gamebut he wanted me to blurb his book, and it deserves a blurb, but I havent done it yet Its nervous time. Oh God, I wish Curt Schilling was only thirtytwo. February 27th Ive been trying to nail down tickets to the home opener for months now. Its been sold out since five minutes after seats went on sale, but Ive got an in. Last year I managed to score some lastminute seatsfield boxes ten rows behind home plate. Took the kids out of school, only to sit in the freezing rain for three hours before the game was called. I figured wed get the same seats, but when the replacements came they were grandstands. I sent them back, but the ticket office never got back to me. At the end of the season, I called and asked what the deal was, and Naomi there said theyd give me two field boxes for this years opener and a chance to buy two more. But so far Ive been having trouble getting through to Naomi. My great fear is that shes changed jobs and well be stuck watching the game on TV. February 28th I vet the depth chart on the website as if Im Theo, trying to figure out who to keep, who to cut, who to ship to Pawtucket. Weve brought the expanded fortyman roster to camp, along with twelve nonroster invitees. By Opening Day, management will whittle these fiftytwo down to twentyfive, and of the twentyfive spots, twenty are already filled. Essentially, thirtytwo players, most with big league experience, are fighting for five spots reserved for middle relievers and backup position players. One guy who I hope makes it is Brian Daubach. Even though hes a millionaire, fans still see him as a scrappy bluecollar player. He paid his dues in the minors with the Marlins and Devil Rays before getting his chance with the Sox, and played well as a platoon guy before getting demoted for Tony Clark (who he outplayed to win his job back), then dumped for the awful Jeremy Giambi. We want Dauber! wed shout after Giambi struck out looking again. Now hes back, and his main competition is David McCarty, a good defensive first baseman we picked up from Oakland at the end of last season. As a lefty hitter with power, Dauber has the edge, but since David Ortiz already fills that bill, McCartys glove might be more valuable in the late innings. McCarty, weirdly, also plans on trying to pitch, and were so desperate for lefties that Franconas going to let him. SK Dauber was a real oldtime Red Sox player. Like he was born to play for the Red Sox. Millar is that way; and Varitek, of course. And you know, Pedro Martinez wasnt born a Red Sox guy, but has become one. He finished his becoming in the seventh game of the ALCS last year, dont you think? Came out covered in mud and blood and shit, soul brother to Pumpsie Green. Man, I root for the Dauberbut I dont give him a dogs chance. Sure wish I had my DAUBACH IS MY DADDY shirt. Id wear it to the SoxBC game. God, no one ever tried harder in the clutch. SO And, like Fisk, he always took it out on his old clubs. He wore out Tampa Bay, and last year when he beat us he was smiling for Tom Caron [NESNs roving onfield reporter] like a new dad. No doubt Pedros paid his dues. Manny, well, its close. Johnny Ds still too new, and Bill Mueller (pronounced Miller), and David Ortiz. The Sox need more Sox! SK Some of what happens to Daubach is down to pure luckwho gets hurt and who stays healthy. But you know hes on the edge of being back in civvies. Or a minor league uni. Hope he made some good investments over the years. February 29th Reporters following ByungHyun Kim say he stays till 1 A.M. working out, but that he naps at all times. I wonder if BKs regimen is like the Japanese, who throw two hundred pitches a day. Hes young and talented, with that weird submarine delivery, but hes never thrown a full season as a starter. If he can give us two hundred innings and twenty quality starts, we should win the East. The worry is that hes a head case. He gave Fenway the finger when we booed him during the introductions before the ALCS, and in the offseason he smashed a photographers camera. I guess hes this years Oil Can Boyd or Cowboy Carl Everett. March 1st Steve calls as Trudys microwaving her lunch. I can barely hear him through the Geigerlike static. For the BC game, were parking in the players lot and sitting in the owners booth. As a bleacher rat, Im a little nervous. What do you say to an ownerWay to own? March 2nd OopsYankees Jason Giambi and Gary Sheffield received steroids from Barry Bondss trainer, according to the ongoing federal probe. Giambi showed up at camp looking shrunken. Sheffield says hell pee in a cup anytime anyplace, but when a reporter produces a cup, Sheff backs down. Makes me wonder if Steinbrenner went out and got ARod and Travis Lee in case the league suspends the BALCO Boys. March 3rd All day an unreal, nearly paralyzing feeling. It seems so impossible that were blowing off work and school that we have to keep repeating the news to each other like lottery winners Were going to Florida! In the Charlotte airport, waiting for our connection to Fort Myers, I look around the gate for fellow pilgrims, but the one kid wearing a cap is a Brewers fan. Its only when were on board that the hard core begin dribbling infour single guys in their twenties, all big enough to be players, in various Sox hats. We get in after midnight and the airports crazy. In the long line at the rentalcar center, half the people are in Boston garb. Fort Myers is an endless grid of strip malls and stoplights, and everyone drives like theyre either having a heart attack or trying to find an emergency room for someone who is. We fly past Mattress World, Bath World, Rug World. Its Hicksville, Long Island, with palm trees and pelicans. Our hotel has personalityunfortunately its the personality of a lunch lady turned crack whore. Bikers and twentysomethings early for spring break wander the parking lot, knocking back Coronas and margaritas to the thumping of a ragged cover band. The hotels assurance on their website that they dont rent to anyone under twentyone seems less a defensive measure now than an admission of a longstanding problem. Its onethirty and the music is thundering up from the stage, one floor below our balcony. The song ends and the drunk girls scream. The drunk guys go Wooooo! March 4th I want to get up and be at the practice fields by nine. I expect itll be just me and Steph, but Trudy comes too, driving while I navigate. We peel off the Tamiami Trail and in a few blocks we see City of Palms Park. According to the website, the training complex is two and a half miles straight down Edison, but theres no parking. Youre supposed to park here and ride a shuttle bus to the practice fields. City of Palms Park is understated and classic from the outside, a plain white concrete facade three stories tall, with flags for all the AL teams flying atop the roof, and one windowsized Sox logo over the green main gates. Theres no one on the plaza in front, just the stalky palm trees. I dont see anywhere to park, so I tell Trudy to go ahead and cruise the practice fields. We get luckythe lot for the practice facility is halfempty. The clearcoated monster trucks and chromewheeled Escalades are obviously the players. We park in a far corner and head for the nearest gate. AUTHORIZED ACCESS ONLY, a sign says. As we walk through, I look for other fans, but only see a few people who might be players relatives. There are five fields and, closest to us, a roofed arcade. Someones in there smacking balls, but its too dim to see who, and were trying to act cool. We head for a field where the players are stretching. No one challenges us. When we reach the team, we see whyits not the big club but the rookie and minor league invitees, guys with no shot this year, but who may develop and move up through the system. The pitchers run bunt drills. The outfielders handle linedrive singles silently fired from a rubberwheeled machine. Former players Luis Alicea and U L Washington coach the infielders, tossing shorthops the players have to backhand barehanded. The range of skill is evident. Some never miss while others are lucky to pick one cleanly. Summers, we see a lot of the tripleA PawSox over in Pawtucket and the doubleA Portland Sea Dogs when they visit New Britain, but the only player I recognize is Hanley Ramirez. Hes the number one prospect in our farm system, a shortstop with speed and power. Hes only twenty, and rumor is he might be promoted from singleA Augusta to Portland, with an eye towards taking Nomars place in 2005. One problem is he made 36 errors last year and hit only .275 after batting over .330 at lower levels. Another is that hes a hothead, earning a tengame suspension for making an obscene gesture to the crowd. Here, in practice, he moves like hes already a superstar, cool and loose and slouchy. There are three seniors watching with us, a woman and two men, one of whom is wearing a Springfield Elks cap. The woman has a camera, a couple signed balls and a handful of minor league cards. She wants to get Jamie Brown to sign his. She knows all the players taking batting practice. This is what they do, she says. Theyre mad at the Sox for forcing them to buy ticket packages that include three crummy games to get the one good one against the Yanks, so now they just come to the complex and watch the kids. BP wraps, so we ramble along the road beyond the last field. Its hot, and Stephs cheeks are red. Weve circled the entire complex, and walk through the lot just as two women in a 69 Firebird convertible pull up. Theyre older than any of the guys here, but beachtanned and gymtight. I dont think Stephs seen Bull Durham or knows what a Baseball Annie is, but he probably wouldnt be interested anyway. We come back in the players entrance, which has a Boston Globe honor box beside it. The batting alleys are full of guys getting extra swings in. By the backstop, the old lady is getting Jamie Brown to sign. Weve only been here a few hours, but its enough. Its only our first day and were already wilting. After putting in some beach time, we get caught in traffic and are nearly late for the night game. Hammond Stadium holds only 7,500, but it seems theyve all brought their cars. The Twins have elected to park the overflow on the outfields of their practice facility. We just shrug and follow the soft ruts in front of us and nose it in against the 330 sign by the foul pole. The temperature at game time here in Fort Myers is seventynine degrees, the PA announcer informs us, to applause. In Minneapolis, its thirtyfour with a mix of rain and snow. Besides the ailing Johnny Damon and Trot Nixon sitting out, the starting lineup is most decidedly the Ateam. Gabe Kapler, a solid backup outfielder, leads off, followed by last years surprise batting champ Bill Mueller, Manny, Nomar, David Ortiz, Kevin Millar, Jason Varitek, PawSock Adam Hyzdu subbing in right for Trot, and in the ninespot, Pokey Reese. The Twins roll out their postseason lineup, including outfielders Shannon Stewart and Torii Hunter, and first baseman Doug Mientkiewicz, as well as phenom Joe Mauer at catcher. Its the first inning of the first exhibition game, but when Bill Mueller launches one to deep center, Torii Hunter gets on his horse and runs it down, diving at full extension like its the playoffs. The intensity only lasts a couple of innings. By the fourth the substitutions are wholesale and the game takes on a doubleA flavor. The Sox win on a brokenbat bleeder by prospect Jeremy Owens, and we leave happy, picking up our free grapefruit, two each in a yellow mesh bag. In the lot I spy an old orange VW bus with RED SOX NATION handpainted in red across the back window. Three guys in their early twenties are piling in the side door, and for a second I envy them the trip. Then I remember that Im on it too. March 5th Its sunny and eightyfour in Fort Myers, the sort of faux summer day that fills Floridas west coast with tourists in the month of March and makes driving a pain in the assoften a dangerous pain in the ass, as many of the people with whom one is sharing the road are old, bewildered, and heavily medicated. All the same, Im in a chipper mood as I stash my car among the Hummers and Escalades in the players parking lot (I have a special dispensation from Kerri Moore, the new Public Relations gal). Its a perfect day for my first game of the year. Well, okay, so its not really a game; more of a seveninning scrimmage against the Boston College baseball team, which is down to take its annual pasting from the experienced teams along the Sun Coast and Alligator Alley (Florida college teams get to play and practice yearround, which hardly seems fair) before swinging north to play under usually cloudy skies and in cutting winds that make fifty degrees feel like thirty. But they are naturally juiced to be playing against the big boys, and in front of an audience that numbers in the thousands instead of the hundreds orsometimes, early onthe mere dozens. City of Palms Park in Fort Myers is Fenways sunniertempered little brother. The aisles are wider, the concession lines are shorter, the prices are saner, the pace is slower, and the mood is laidback. One hears the occasional cry of You suck!these are Boston fans after allbut they are isolated, and often draw disapproving looks. This is a mellow crowd, and hey, why not? Were still in first placealong with the Yankees, and the Orioles, and even the Devil Rays, who dwell in their somehow dingy dome up the road in Tampaand all things are possible. Curse? What curse? As if to underline this, a grinning bald guy holds up a sign for Pokey Reese.


OKEY DOKEY, POKEY, it reads. Its an afternoon for saying hello to old friends from previous springs going backcan it be?six years, now; everyone from the parkinglot attendant and the elderly security guard outside the elevator going up to the offices and the press boxes to a laidback Larry Lucchino, who wants to know if Im over my bout of pneumonia. And Stewart ONan is here, looking exactly as he did last October during the American League Championship Series against the Yankees. Maybe a little more gray in the goateebeing a Red Sox fan will do that to youbut otherwise helooks like the same old Stew. He could even be munching from the same bag of peanuts. The wonderful Kerri Moore (who I still havent met, although I did leave her a signed copy of The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon as a thankyou) has gotten us seats directly behind the screen, and the grass is so green it almost looks painted on. Tim Wakefield starts for Boston and gets a solid round of applause these people remember the games he won in postseason, not the catastrophic seasonending home run he gave up to Aaron Boone. He throws more hard stuff than Im used to seeing, but Wakes breadandbutter pitch is the knuckleball, and to him the really hard stuff is a heater that clocks in at 81 miles an hour (the scoreboard down here gives no radargun readout, so we just have to guess). The top of the BC lineup hits him pretty well, and after half an inning theyve put up a twospot on four hits. This is a pretty typical earlyspring outing for Wakefield, who just throws the one inning. At thirtyseven hes not only the dean of the Red Sox pitching staff, but the player whos been with the club longest. A lot of the guys who see action in the SoxBC scrimmage (which the Sox eventually win, 93, big surprise there) are a lot less familiar. Theres Jesus Medrano, for instance, and career minor leaguer Andy Dominique; theres Tony Schrager, who is wearing the highest number Ive ever seen 95. Holy shit, I think, that could almost be his temperature. These guys and plenty of others will undoubtedly be on their way back to the Pawtucket Red Sox, the Portland Sea Dogs, and the Lowell Spinners (where the team mascot, Stew informs me, is the worldfamous Canalligator) when the fortyman roster starts to shrink. For others, socalled invitees like Terry Shumpert, Tony Womack, and the worldfamous Dauber, things are more serious. If it doesnt work here for them, it may not work anywhere. The career of a pro baseball player is longer than that of the average pro basketball or football player, but it is still short compared to that of your average account executive or ad salesman, and although the pay is better, the end can come with shocking suddenness. But no one worries too much about stuff like that on a day like this. Its only the second gameday of the short spring season, the weathers beautiful, and everyones loose. Around the fourth inning, Red Sox radio broadcaster Joe Castiglione comes down and sits with Stewart and me for a little while. Like the players, Joe looks trim, tanned and relaxed. He has his own book coming out in a month or so, a wonderful, anecdotecrammed tripdown memory lane called Broadcast Rites and Sites, subtitled I Saw It on the Radio with the Boston Red Sox. (One of the best is about the grand slam Boston catcher Rich Gedman hit off Detroit screwballer Willie Hernandez back in 86.) He tells us more stories as he sits on the step at the end of the aisle, watching Boston College bat in the top of the fifth. Baseball is a leisurely game, and those of us who love it fill its pauses with stories of other games and other years. When I mention how hard Im pulling for Brian Daubach to find a home with the 04 Red Sox, Joe tells us how he set Dauber up with the woman who became his wife. She said she didnt like ballplayers because they were always hitting on her, Joe says, smiling in the warm afternoon sun. I told her she ought to meet this guy. I told her he was really different. Really nice. Joes smile widens into a grin. Then I sent Dauber in to get his hair cut, he finishes. Case closed. Stew and I look at each other and say the same thing at exactly the same moment What hair? The Daubers got a quarter of an inch, at most. And we all laugh. Its good to be laughing at a baseball game again. God knows the laughs were hard to come by last October. I ask Joe if the college kids get excited about these games with the pros (Im thinking of the BC pitcher who struck out big David Ortiz in the third, and wondering if hell still be telling people about it when hes fortyfive and paunchy). Oh, like you wouldnt believe, Joe says, and then goes on to tell us the Red Sox player the college kids liked the most was the much maligned Carl Everett, who was dubbed Jurassic Carl by Boston Globe columnist Dan Shaughnessy (for his temper as much as his fundamentalist Christian beliefs), and who has since been traded to the Montreal Expos. He was great to the [college players], Joe says. Hed spend lots of time talking to them and give them all kinds of equipment. He pauses, then adds, I bet he prospers in Montreal, because theres no media coverage. People wont be watching him so closely. By now its the bottom of the sixth, and Joe excuses himself. He and his broadcast partner, Jerry Trupiano (Troop), are doing the evening game (another slomo scrimmage, this time against Northeastern, with a fellow named Schilling starting for the Sox), and he has to prepare. But, like everything else that happens this day, the preparations will be leisurely, more pleasure than business. Joe knows a lot of people back home in New England will be listening, but not exactly paying attentionits the Soxversus Northeastern, after allbut its also baseball, Schilling on the mound, Garciaparra at short, and Varitek behind the plate (at least for a while, then maybe Kelly Shoppach, another guy with a high number). Its the fact of it that matters, like that first robin you see on your stillsnowy front lawn. Its too early to play really hard, and too early to wax really lyrical, either (God knows theres too much labored lyricism in baseball writing these days; its even crept into the newspapers, which used to be bastions of statistics and hardnosed realitywhat sports reporters used to call the agate). But it cant hurt to say that being hereespecially after a serious bout of pneumoniafeels pretty goddamn wonderful. Its like putting your hand out and touching a live thinganother season when great things may happen. Miracles, even. And if that isnt touching grace, its pretty close. Oh, shit, thats too close to lyrical for comfort, but its been a good day. There was baseball. So let it stand. March 6th After a sloppy loss at the Twins place, we run into Dauber by the players lot. Everyone pushes toward him; its not a surge, more of a controlled approach, lots of jockeying. Theres a space of two feet around him that we seem to agree is forbidden. You can reach a ball or a card into it, but anything more would be a violation. No one tries to shake his hand or put an arm around him for a picture, as if that would be too personal. Im lucky enough to be in the front, in the middle. Welcome back, I tell him. Thank you. Hes surprisingly softspoken, you might even say shy. Have you noticed everyones been cheering the loudest for you, even here on the road. It means a lot. I back off after he signs my ball, and see a Navigator with Illinois plates rolling up. I know Daubers the pride of Belleville, Illinois (along with Wilcos Jeff Tweedy), so I call, Your rides here. Thanks, he says, and hes off. When we get back to the hotel, Im unwinding on the balcony when I see a woman on the beach in an old Lou Merloni shirt. Loooooooo ooooooooouuuuuu! I hoot, and she turns around but doesnt see me. For years Lou Merlonithe Pride of Framingham, Massachusettswas our regular schlub and native son. He could play anywhere in the infield or outfield, and was a reliable pinch hitter. Someone would get hurt, and hed end up starting, hit .330, and then sit when the guy came back. He was Nomars best friend, yet Sox management seemed to delight in shipping him down to Pawtucket and calling him back up, a crazy yoyo motion. Two years ago we shipped him to San Diego, only to get him back in midseason. Lous gone, off to Cleveland. Lou, who last year Ben Affleck (postDogma, preGigli) called a joke during a visit to the Sox broadcast booth. Daubers our Lou now. March 7th Theres no point trying to beat the crowd today. People will be camping out for this one. Scalpers line Edison like hitchhikers, holding up signs I NEED TICKETS. The lots almost full two hours before game time. People are tailgating, barbecuing on hibachis. A few rows closer to the park, four cottonheaded grandmothers in full Yankee regalia have their lawn chairs arranged under a shade tree. Inside, its a miniinvasion. The Yanks have brought their Ateam Jeters at short and ARod, weirdly, is at third. It seems crazy to pay a guy that kind of money to play a corner. It must be ego ARods got better range, a better glove, a better arm. Jeter seems to have lost his concentration the last few years. ARod lets a grounder skip under his glove into left, and the crowd cheers. I notice the Yanks have a 22Clemenss old number. After all Rogers talk of wanting to go into the Hall wearing a Yankee cap, it seems a calculated insult. While the Sox havent officially retired his 21, its one of the few numbers that hasnt been assigned. I dont see Giambi or Sheffield, and wonder if the Yankees are protecting them from us. Our seats are down the rightfield line, and Id been looking forward to listening to the fans peppering Sheffield and waving signs like JUICIN JASON. Theres a commotion down by the Sox dugout, and a cheer. Nomars come out to shake hands with ARod. I only see their heads for an instant before the photographers swamp them. A few minutes later the scene repeats when Nomar greets Jeter. The Yanks finish hittingunimpressive except for this huge lefty I dont recognize. No Giambi or Sheffield. Maybe theyre replacing their blood somewhere like Keith Richards did. And no sign of former Sox closer Tom Gordon, who would be sure to elicit a mixed reaction. Ive got to ask Steve Does that girl still love him? Our lineups disappointing Nomars sitting, so are Johnny D, Yankee killer David Ortiz and Dauber, and Trots still out. Bronson Arroyo, who threw a perfect game for Pawtucket, is our starter. He may not be Pedro or Schilling but he looks good in the first, getting Kenny Lofton, Jeter and ARod in order. Kapler leads off with an easy grounder to Jeter, who throws it away. ARods smiling, a guy behind me says. Kapler steals on Contreras and scores on a single by Bill Mueller. Contreras slows the pace down to Cuban National Team speed, hoping to take away our momentum, but Ellis Burks smacks a single, Kevin Millar whomps a double and were up 30. Theres a lot of taunting in the stands, and a Yankee fan snaps back, Yeah, you guys are great in March. What do Yankee fans use for birth control? one guy asks, then answers, Their personalities. In the bottom of the second, Pokey Reese, subbing for Nomar, takes Contreras deep. The Yanks bring in Rivera to stop the bleeding, as if this is Game 7. The Sox counter with minor leaguer Jason Shiell, who melts down. Francona makes no concessions to the rivalry, or even the game. This is spring training, and he leaves Shiell in to see if he can fight his way out. The big lefty who was blasting them in batting practice turns out to be veteran Tony Clark, who golfs a threerun shot. Lets go Mets! someone yells. Lets go Tigers! Lets go Sox! The Yankees are still worried, it seems, because they bring in Felix Heredia to pitch the seventh and eighth. McCarty, whos played the whole game, hits into a 463 double play in the eighth, making him 0 for 4. In the top of the ninth he blocks a hot smash at first, then kicks the ball away. Hows the weather in Pawtucket? someone yells. Hyzdu strikes out to end it. The finals 117. Unsatisfying, but we did win the A game, knocking Contreras around, and Arroyo looked good. Outside, we walk by the players lot, ogling a classic tomatored GTO convertible. Someone says its Nomars, except hes already left with Mia Hamm in her car. A Jeep Cherokee with BK in it flies by us. Youre making friends, someone shouts after him. Several people confirm a new trade rumor BK and Trot for Randy Johnson. Most of the big names are long gone, but firstbase coach Lynn Jones rolls down his window and signs, as does Cesar Crespo, driving a pimpedout Integra with Konig rims. Terry Francona doesnt stopAnother bad decision! A young guy pulls up in a Taurus. No one can place him. He stops and rolls down his window, but no one approaches. Im only a rookie, he says. You probably wouldnt want my autograph. Hes right, but we cant say that to his face. Sure we do. A couple of parents push their kids forward. Its Josh Stevens, a pitcher for the PawSox. There are only four people left when we take off. Its almost five. Driving back to the hotel, I say, I wonder if the Twins are playing tonight. You want a divorce? Trudy asks. March 9th Were home, its snowing, and summer seems a long way off. Maybe its the weather, but that connection to the Sox that felt so strong just yesterday feels tenuous. I tell Steve its like getting a taste of high summer and then having it snatched away. By seasons end, I imagine it will seem Edenic, all possibility and perfect weather. That night while were watching TV, Dunkin Donuts runs a commercial starring Curt Schilling. Schilling sits by his locker, eating a breakfast sandwich and listening to a language tape teaching him Bostonspeak. Wicked hahd, he repeats between bites. Pahk. Play wicked hahd when I go to the pahk. For several years now the spokesperson for Dunkin Donuts has been Nomar. Another sign hes leaving? March 12th I catch an interview with PawSock third baseman Kevin Youkilis at the practice fields. In Michael Lewiss Moneyball, As general manager Billy Beane champions Youkilis as The Greek God of Walks. Hes the kind of player Beane loves average glove, soso wheels, but a great eye, quick bat and astonishing onbase percentage. Likewise, Bill James, the Soxs statistical guru, is high on the guys numbers. The interviewer is optimistic about Youkiliss chances of making the team, which I think is crazy. Hes fourth on the depth chart behind Shump, and Shumps probably not going to make it. Youkilis is positive but realistic. Hopefully Ill make it up to Fenway this yearmeaning a cup of coffee in September when they expand the roster. Clips roll of the Monster seats and Pedro going up the ladder on a flailing Devil Ray, and again Im ready for the season to start. March 13th Mr. Kim has a sore shoulder. Im not surprised, with that goofy motion. Bronson Arroyo may take his slot, though the Courant says that during the first few weeks of the season the schedules spread out enough that we can go with a fourman rotation. Steves not upset. He says Kim looked lost out there in the playoffs, as if he didnt know where the ball was going. Hes only twentyfive, I say, and hes already pitched in a lot of big games. Thats part of his problem. Stat maven Bill James found that the more innings pitchers threw before the age of twentythree, the more problems they had later in their careers. What about Clemens? James doesnt count college. Clemens is actually one of the guys he uses to make his case. And Clemens is an exception, hes a workhorse. Dan Duquette found that out when he looked at his stats and said his career was over. I dont see how James can have it both waysan example and an exceptionand it seems notable that the only championship Clemens ever really led his team to was the College World Series, but even the devil can quote Scripture for his purposes. In bed, in the dark, I match last years rotation to this years. Schillings a major upgrade from John Burkett, but who is Kimnow Arroyoreplacing? It takes me a minute to recall Casey Fossumor Blade, as we called him, since he weighed about 140 pounds, his front literally concave. He was the guy we wouldnt trade last spring to get Bartolo Colon, hoping hed develop into a steady lefty starter. He was in and out all year with injuries and never got it going. Kim is an improvement on him, but Arroyo is in pretty much the same place Blade was two years ago, a tripleA player trying to earn that number five slot. Well be stronger, but therell still be a weak spot other managers can attack, stealing series by feeding their weaker pitchers to our aces, matching their ace against Lowe and then throwing their number two and three guys against Wake and Arroyo. Should I be worrying about this now? Terry Francona better be. March 14th In the Sunday sports section are two pictures of Jason Giambi, a before and after comparison that makes me go, Whoa. In the one from last year hes pudgycheeked, a pad of fat under his chin, his biceps filling his sleeves. The one from a couple weeks ago shows a drawn, scrawny guy, rockstar thin, as if hes been hit by some wasting disease. My immediate reaction isnt partisan but humane God, I hope hes okay. I dont catch the final of todays game until the late news. Pedro had control problems and walked in a run, but Johnny D homered and we beat the Os 52. Im glad we won, but it doesnt really matter. Im more concerned with Pedros walk total from last year, and the trouble he had finding the plate in the playoffs. Its been three years since hes been consistently dominant, and I wonder if hell ever get back to that level. Because back then, there was no doubt. In 2001, we went to a game he was supposed to throw against Seattle, when Seattle was the hottest team in the majors. The game was delayed by rain about two hours, and we were worried that Pedro wouldnt start because of the cold. He came out in the first and got Ichiro on three pitches, then John Olerud on three pitches, and then Edgar Martinez on three pitches. Nine pitches, nine strikes. I looked at Steph like, what did we just see? It was a strange realization, witnessing him strike out seventeen or spin a onehitter. Then, when you were watching Pedro, you knew you were watching the best pitcherout of the millions of people to pick up a baseball and try to throw it past a batterin the entire world. But that was three years ago. March 17th Tonight the high school dedicates Caitlins choral concert to a beloved custodian who died suddenly of a heart attack. The teacher reading a speech about him confesses that they bonded as Sox fans, and that the morning after the Sox had blown another sure thing, we knew not to talk about the game until wed had our coffees. An easel at the front of the auditorium holds a picture of him. He couldnt be more than fiftyfive, and I think how unfair it is that he never got to experience the Sox winning it alllike Trudys uncle Vernon, who died last year in his sixties. Whenever I saw him, we talked Sox. It was our one point of connection, a joshing, bitching camaraderie shared over beers. This summers going to be different without him, emptier. I think of the millions of Sox fans who rooted their entire lives and never felt that giddy vindication the Pats have given us twice now. There has to be a tremendous psychic charge built up from those faithful generations. This year, if we do it, well be doing it for them too. I dont want to spend a long time maundering over mortality, but you know, when I was eighteen and Lonnie was pitching for the Sox, I knew Id be around to see them win the Series. You know how it is when youre eighteen and bulletproof. Now, holy shit, Im fiftyseven, Ive been hit by a car, I had a lung practically go up in smoke this winter, and I realize maybe it really wont happen. And still I look at our team and sometimes wonderWho are these guys? Oh well. I used to joke, you know, about having a tombstone that read STEPHEN KING with the dates, and then, below that, a single sock, and below that NOT IN MY LIFETIME. And below that NOT IN YOURS, EITHER. Not a bad tagline, huh? March 18th Im shocked to read in the paper that Nomar is 0 for spring0 for 8, reallyand has missed four straight games with that bruised heel. Cesar Crespos seizing the opportunity, hitting .435. Maybe he can take that extra roster spot. March 19th Trot flies out to L.A. to get checked by a specialist and looks doubtful for Opening Day. Kapler, who took a pay cut to stay with the Sox, must be cursing his agent. Nomar shows up at the clubhouse with a boot on his foot. The trainers diagnosed him with Achilles tendinitis, but an MRI shows no structural damage. And Manny, I discover, is hitting .172. Now Im glad weve got a few weeks to get things together. The lottery for Green Monster seats begins, one entry per email address. After getting aced out of regular tickets, Im resigned, punching in our two entries. Then I get an idea. I have dozens of friends who have no interest in Monster seats. I can use their names, and if by some chance they win, I can pay them face value for the tickets. I imagine scalpers are using dozens, even hundreds, of email addresses. The comparisons unavoidable. Now Im like them, bending the rules in my greed for the seats. It feels decidedly squirmy, and yet for the next few hours I span the continent, tapping Oklahoma and the Rockies and San Francisco and Edmonton for names, addresses, phone numbers and birthdays donated by pitying friends. March 20th The team dwindles as Theo assigns seven players to the minors, including optioning Kevin Youkilis to Pawtucket. Steves worried about Trot, and brings up Tim Naehring, our illfated third baseman of the nineties. Naehring was that agonizing player whos vastly talented but always hurt. At 62, 205, he wasnt delicate, but he broke his wrist, he broke his ankle, he had a bad back. He was on the DL so much that he came to seem like a platoon player. When he finally retired at age thirty, it seemed possible that he was just hurt again. Thats not how Trot wants to go out. March 21st This morning Philadelphia blew up the Vet. While Phillies fans remembered their one World Series win, Eagles fans hoped it would change their luck. Back when our old owners were planning to build a new Fenway, I heard the same kind of superstitious talk out of stalwarts like Ted Williams (who always hated the Monsters effect on Sox pitchers). So, if we win, do we have to keep it as a goodluck charm? The Vet, like Three Rivers Stadium or the Kingdome, bit the dust not because it was unlucky or falling down, but because it just wasnt a fun place to watch a ball game. Thats not true of Fenway, unless youre stuck behind a pole or in line for the bathroom. The true test of a ballpark, and maybe a ball club, is percent capacityhow many butts versus how many seatsand Fenways aced that test every year since 1967. Steve couldnt even scrounge a ticket to the SoxJays game yesterdayat their place. SO I can see you in the parking lot, wagging a finger, waylaying strangersNeed one. SK The Sox are a hot ticket everywhere they go in Florida. Folks think they are a gennawine Team of Destiny. They banged out Ed Wood Stadium, or whatever they call the place here in Sarasota where Cincy plays; first time in two years. And were turning them away at the door. All that and AirCast Nomar didnt even play. It will be interesting to see if the phenomenon carries over into the regular season. Remember the year the Orioles were relatively stacked and started 021? Or was it 022? Go you big David Ortiz. I call up the website and find weve shipped Tony Womack to the Cards. With Womack gone, we dont have a designated lateinning basestealer, unless Shump is showing flashes of his old speed. I feel bad for Womack, his salary and Lamborghini notwithstanding. He bunted and ran better than anyone on the team this spring, but not being able to play the field, he never had a chance. Shump takes advantage of this break by straining a hamstring in the night game. So after finally outlasting Womack, he essentially hands McCarty the twentyfifth spot. March 24th The drawing for Monster seats was yesterday. All morning I avoid opening my email, not wanting to jinx our shot. Its noon when I finally check, expecting dozens of forwards from my coconspirators. Theres a piece of spam from priceline.com, thats it. At five theres still nothing, good or bad. The Sox are playing the Yanks on NESN. Trudy says I can watch it, but theres an interesting documentary on, and I say, Thats okay. Its just preseason. The documentarys short, and we catch up to the game late. Were behind 85, but when we rally in the bottom of the ninth, there arent enough Yankee fans left to overcome a hearty Lets go, Red Sox! chant. Its a classic Red Sox moment, that refusal to give in, even with Lowell Spinner Iggy Suarez stepping to the plate as our last hope. Iggy, feeling it, singles. With two on and two out, Dauber hits a flare to left, and its 86 with men on second and third and Hyzdu coming up. The chanting grows frantic, like we might actually pull it out. Hyzdus batting .173. He shows us why, taking three late, waving swings, and for the second time this spring we lose to the Yankees. I turn the channel. I know its only exhibition, and that its classier not to chase after meaningless wins, but its irritating. By midnight I still havent gotten any email about Monster tickets. I think that cant be good, but, like losing to the Yanks, theres nothing I can do but eat it. March 25th Im hopingexpecting to shove all the work off my desk and get down to City of Palms to see the Sox on Saturday. Ive got an invite to watch the game with Dan Curse of the Bambino Shaughnessy, the writer most New England fans (at least those who read the Boston Globe) most readily associate with the Olde Towne Team. And this Curse thing has really entered the New England stream of consciousness, as Im sure you knowits right up there with the Salem witch trials and Maine lobstah, up there to the point where some wit with a spray can (or tortured sports fanartist, take your choice) has turned a traffic sign reading REVERSE CURVE on Storrow Drive into one reading REVERSE THE CURSE. Ofcourse you and I know the socalled Curse of the Bambino is about as real as the socalled Books of Mormon, supposedly discovered in a cave and read with the help of magic peekin stones (true!), but like all those Mormons, I kind of believe in spite of the things patent absurdity. March 27th At three the remaining Green Monster seats go on sale. Considering we went 0 for 34 during the online lottery, I cant imagine there are any left, but at 257 Im watching the seconds tick off on the Weather Channel. Ive enlisted Trudy, against her will, to take the other phone, and at exactly three we bombard the old info line. Forty minutes into it, Trudy breaks through and hands over the phone. I did my duty. I wait through Hot Fun in the Summertime, and Boz Scaggss Its Over, and (Na Na Hey Hey) Kiss Him Goodbye. When I finally get a human, he says there are actual seats left, which I think is wrong. Anything for the Yankees? I can get you second row for April eighteenth. Ill take em, I say, thinking Im getting away with something. March 28th Now theyre saying Nomar probably wont make the opener. Francona, trying to play it down, says Nomar would be starting if it were Septemberas if he doesnt know all the games count the same. March 30th The Yomiuri (Tokyo) Giants, who Matsui played for, are Japans answer to the Yankeesbased in the largest city, with dozens of championships. My friend Phil in Tokyo has told me the Hanshin Tigers from OsakaKyoto are their Sox, a hardluck club with fans who are devoted beyond all reason. Last year they won the Central League, beating the Giants, then lost a heartbreaker of a Series to the Daiei Hawks. For a couple weeks, people all over Japan were wearing their Hanshin Tigers gear, even in Tokyo. It makes senseOsakaKyoto is like Boston, a proud, much smaller city in the shadow of a megalopolis, and like the Yankees, the Giants have the most money and generate the most media coverage. Yesterday the Hanshin Tigers pounded Donovan Osborne and the Yanks, 117. Their first baseman, with the unJapanesesounding name of Arias, has a sweet line in the box score 4 2 3 5. Go Tigers! Today the Yanks open the regular season therein fact, with the time difference, theyre losing to Lou Piniellas Devil Rays as I read the morning paper. SK I got down to the game yesterday and saw my man Tim Wakefield go a strong six. We won, 83. He gave up two long balls, but the second was a popfly type of deal that just kind of got up in the slipstream and carried over the wall. It would have been caught by Trot (in Fenway). I spent a lot of time in the booth with Joe Castiglione and Jerry Trupiano. Troop told me a really terrible joke. Janet Jackson decides to rehab her tattered reputation by becoming the first woman to play major league baseball, right? But it doesnt work. Her first atbat in Kansas Cityshe pops out again. BOOO! In between halfinnings in the sixththis could only happen to a writerI was proofing some copy for the final Dark Tower book and working out with my eraser. The Sox come up just as Im finishing. The first pitch produces a line foul that missed my nose by less than an inch. I swear this is a true thing Im telling you. I saw it go between my nose and the little pile of manuscript I had in my hands, also heard the baleful whiz of the ball, which hit an old guy behind me pretty hard. My seatmates are going, Did you see that? Pokey Reese almost nailed Stephen King! Etc, etc. Well, the lady next to me was into her third or fourth beerenough so she was willing to be disapproving no matter who I was. She said, Were sitting right behind the dugout, in case you didnt notice. You should be paying attention. I repliedand I really believe this to be truethat if I had been watching, I would have involuntarily jerked right into it and gotten my friggin face rearranged (some would say that might be an improvement). I mean, that thing was a rocket. Im back for more abuse tomorrow. Thats the last spring training tilt. Then things get serious. SO Glad youre okay, and congratulations on finishing. Now the important question Who got the ball? March 31st Before Ive eaten breakfast, the Yanks have crushed the DRays 121, and the divisions knotted at .500 again. We play the Twins at Hammond tomorrow, then head to Atlanta for two against the Braves before opening in Baltimore. By Sunday, the club has to make eleven more cuts to get down to the final twentyfiveman roster. On the bubble Dauber, McCarty, Crespo, Hyzdu and Shump. Three of the bubble guys and one lucky pitcher (maybe a second lefty to go with Embree) should make the team, at least for the next month. The trouble is, were short on outfielders. Theo and Francona may have to keep Hyzdu, whos had the worst spring of any Red Sock, and send down Shump and Crespo, whos had the best. April 1st On the very last day he could, Shump exercises an out clause in his contract and is free to sign with another club (eventually the Pirates), meaning Cesar Crespo, hitting .361, has earned a spot on the roster. Met vet Bobby Jones and Tim Hamulack will fight for the final bullpen spot. Theyll both travel to Atlantaas will Adam Hyzdu, whos already been told by Francona hell start the year in Pawtucket. Hes the twentysixth man, the last one cut, and knows he could have made the team if hed only hit the ball. With Trot out and Kapler starting, our backup outfielders are the thirtyeightyearold, leginjuryprone Ellis Burks, first basemanaspiring pitcher David McCarty and fullbacks Brian Daubach and Kevin Millar. The rosters set, if not the lineup. The bench may not be as deep as the Yankees, but its a good club, a 95100 win club.


My only worry now is health, with Nomar, Trot and BK already out. If we lose anyone else important, this could quickly turn into a lost season, like the Angels last year. April 2nd I drive to Boston to meet my friend Lowrys lit class at Simmons College, right down Brookline Ave from Fenway. All the way up, I wrestle with the question of whether to drop in on Naomi. I dont want to freak her out, but she hasnt returned my calls, and were a week away from the home opener. Im early, theres a parking spot, and I cant resist. From the sidewalk, the office looks dark, but thats just the tinted windows. The big tally board with all the games broken down by sections is covered with Xs. Everythings soldout except some August games against Tampa Bay and Toronto. A young guy at a desk is on the phone with someone who got aced out of the Monster seats. Im sorry, sir, the guy says, but it did say firstcome firstserve. Im loitering, and he looks up from the phone in midconversation. Is Naomi expecting you? He calls her, then explains that shes all the way on the other side of the park (there is no other side of the parkthat would be where the batting cages are, under the centerfield bleachers). She says not to worry, its going to happen. Its going to be a dayofgame thing, Ill have to pick them up at the Will Call window. Outside, a crew is fixing pennants over Gate A. The one theyre working on as I pass says 1918 WORLD CHAMPIONS. I go down Lansdowne and look up at the Monster seats. Green metal stools perch upsidedown on the counters, like a bar after closing. I try to imagine sitting up there, but the winds so cold its hard to believe the seasons only two days away. Its after dinner when I finally catch up to yesterdays game. We beat the Twins 43, taking three out of five from them to win Fort Myerss Mayors Cup. The hero, ironically, was Adam Hyzdu, who homered to break the tie in the ninth. Too little, too late. April 3rd Last night we beat the Braves 73. Exhibition results mean even less the day before the opener, but Im glad to see Manny pick up his first homer of the spring. Today the Braves shut us out, 50, with Foulke giving up two runs in a third of an inning. I tell myself it means nothing, but neither does our 1712 Grapefruit League record (a half game, Im sorry to report, behind the Yanks). In the last meaningful action of the spring, lefty Bobby Joness slider and 1.74 ERA win him the final roster spot over the less experienced Tim Hamulack. The Weather Channels predicting snow here tomorrow night. In Baltimore, for the first pitch, its supposed to be thirtynine degrees. AprilMay Who Are These Guys? April 4th Opening Day Notes on Addiction Ive written about substance abuse a good many times, and see no need to rehash all that in a book about baseballbut because this also happens to be a book about rooting, the subject at least has to be mentioned, it seems to me. These are a fans notes, after all, and when used in the context of rooting, the word fan aint short for fantastic. I dont booze it up anymore, and I dont take the mind or moodaltering drugs, but over a good many years of staying away from those things one day at a time, Ive come to a more global view of addiction. Sometimes I think of it as the Lump in the Sofa Cushion Theory of Addiction. This theory states that addiction to booze or dope is like a lump in a sofa cushion. You can push it downbut it will only pop up somewhere else. Thus a woman who quits drinking may start smoking again. A guy who quits the glass pipe may rediscover his sex drive and become a serial womanizer. A gal who quits drinking and drugging may put Twinkies and strawberry ice cream in their place, thus adding forty or fifty pounds before putting on the brakes. Hey, Ive been lucky. No sex issues, no gambling issues, moderate food issues. I do, however, have a serious problem with the Boston Red Sox, and have ever since they came so damned close to winning the whole thing in 67. Before then, I was what you might call a recreational Red Sox user. Since then Ive been a fullblown junkie, wearing my hat with the scarlet B on the front for six months straight and suffering a serious case of hathead while I obsess over the box scores. I check the Boston Red Sox official website, and all the unofficial ones as well (most of them fucking dire); I scoff at the socalled Curse of the Bambino, believing completely in myheart even though I know it is the bullshit creation of one talented and ambitious sportswriter. Worst of all, during the season I become as much a slave to my TV and radio as any addict ever was to his spike. I have been asked by several people if working on this book is a hardship, given the fact that I have two other books coming out this year (the final novels in the Dark Tower cycle), a television series still in production (that would be Kingdom Hospital on ABC, the Detroit Tigers of network broadcasting), and a halffinished new novel sitting on my desk. The answer is noits not a hardship but a relief. I would either be sitting at Fenway or in my living room with the TV tuned to NESN (the New England Sports Network, the regional pusher that services addicts like me) in any case; this book legitimizes my obsession and allows me to indulge it to an even greater degree. In the language of addiction, the books publisher has become my enabler and my colleague, Stewart ONan, is my codependent. Now, nine hours before Sidney Ponson of the Orioles throws his first pitch to the first Red Sox batter of the season, I can look at my situation coldly and clearly I am a baseball junkie, pure and simple. Or perhaps its even more specific than that. Perhaps Im a Red Sox junkie, pure and simple. Im hoping its choice B, actually. If it is, and the Sox win the World Series this year, this nearly fortyyear obsession of mine may break like a longterm (very longterm) malarial fever. Certainly this team has the tools, but Red Sox fans do not need the bad mojo of some false curse to appreciate the odd clouds of bad luck that often gather around teams that seem statistically blessed. Outfitted in the offseason with strong pitching and defense to go with their formidable hitting, the Sox suddenly find themselves short two of their most capable players Nomar Garciaparra and Trot Nixon. 2003 batting champ Bill Mueller, suffering supposed elbow problems (from swinging a leaded bat in the ondeck circle?I wonder), has seen little spring training action. And Cadillac closer Keith Foulke has been, lets face it, nothing short of horrible. But for the true junkieer, fan, I mean, true fansuch perverse clouds of darkness do not matter. The idea of starting 0 and 22, for instance (as the Orioles once did), is pushed firmly to the back of the mind.There will be no Sopranos tonight at 9 P.M., even if the Sox trail byfive in the seventh inning; there will be no Deadwood tonight at 10 P.M. even if Keith Foulke comes on in the eighth, blows a threerun Sox lead, and then gives up an extra three for good measure. Tonight, barring a stroke or a heart attack, I expect to be in until the end, be it bitter or sweet. And the same could be said for the season as a whole. Im going to do pretty much what I did last year, in other words (only this year I expect to get paid for it). Which is pretty much addiction in a nutshell doing the same thing over and over, and expecting a different result. Right now its only 10 A.M., though, and the house is quiet. No ones playing baseball yet. Im feverfree for another nine hours, and Im enjoying it. Dont get me wrong, Ill enjoy the baseball game, too. The first ones always a thrill. I think thats true even if youre a Tigers or Devil Rays fan (a team that looks much improved this year, by the way). But by August, in the heat of a pennant race, I always start to resent the evenings spent following baseball and to envy the people who can take it or just turn it off and read a good book. Myself, Ive never been that way. Im an addict, you see. And Im a fan. And if theres a difference, I dont see it. Opening on the road sucks. You cant feel the perfect newness of the season up close. A true home openers a pearl, smooth and untouched. Not this year. By the time the team gets to Fenway, whether were 40 or 04, the season will have been rubbed up, scuffed, cut. And itll still be cold. Its fortythree and breezy in Baltimore. Hot dog wrappers and plastic bags drift by behind the homeplate ump. Im at home, digging the game on NESN from my cozy couch. Don Orsillo and Jerry Remy talk about Opening Day jitters, and to prove them right, in the first Bill Mueller throws one wide of Millar. Melvin Mora lets him off the hook by trying to take third on a bloop single, and Manny easily guns him down. In the top of the next inning, Mora lifts his glove and lets a grounder go through his legs. The heart of the Os lineup is made of their big offseason free agentsformer MVP Miguel Tejada and All Stars Rafael Palmeiro and Javy Lopez. In the second, Lopez, seeing his first pitch as an O, plants a high fastball from Pedro in the leftfield seats, and the crowd chants, Javy, Javy. Don points out that the fastball was clocked at 89. Pedros missing the plate, pulling his hard curve a good two feet outside on righties. Gibbons singles, then Pedro plunks David Segui. There are no outs. Bigbie hits an excuseme roller to Pedro, who checks second and goes to first. The throws to the home side of the bag, and looks like Millar can handle it, but it tips off his glove and skips away. Gibbons scores and the runners move up. Payyyydrooooo, Payyyydrooooo, the crowd taunts. He leaves a changeup up to Matos, who singles in Segui. Matos steals second. In the bullpen Bronson Arroyo is warming. Don and Jerry debate the possibility that somethings physically wrong with Pedro; maybe hes having trouble gripping the ball in the cold. Pedro quiets them (and the crowd) by striking out Roberts and Mora, bringing up Tejada, who looks thicker around the middle, positively husky for a shortstop. He hits one deep to rightcenter that Johnny Damon tracks down, and were out of it. Jerry says were lucky to be down only three runs, and while hes right, I dont feel lucky. Two innings into the opener and the seasons turning to shit. We get a run back in the top of the third when Manny rips a single off Ponsons back leg. In the bottom, Bellhorn and Pokey turn a nifty two to end the inning and touch gloves on their way to the dugout. So some things are working. In the fourth, on a ball to the rightfield corner with two down and the number nine hitter coming up, Dale Sveum holds Kapler at third, though the throw goes into second without a cutoff man. Dont be stupid, I plead, too late. And then Pokey, for no reason I can see, tries to sneak a bunt past Ponson and is an easy third out. Pedros settled down, giving up only two hits since the second. Its still only 31 in the seventh when David Ortiz launches one down the rightfield linefoul. In the seventh, Timlin comes in and walks two, gives up a bloop to Tejada and a Palmeiro single through a shifted infield, and its 41. Dave Wallace makes a visit to the mound but doesnt take Timlin out. The next batter, Javy Lopez, hits a long fly to rightcenter that hangs up. Johnny D tracks it as the wind takes it away from him. Kaplers angling in from right to back up the play. Johnny looks up, then looks over at Kapler. Kapler looks at Johnny. The ball lands between them. With two outs, everyones running, and Palmeiro hoofs it all the way around from first. This is when everyone leaves, including Trudy. Its eleven oclock on a Sunday, and the game has been plain ugly. It continues that way. The reliever for the Os walks the bases loaded and gives up a run on a fielders choice. Later, Cesar Crespo makes a throw in the dirt that Millar should scoop but doesnt, letting in another run. In the top of the ninth its 72 and thirty degrees and Camden Yards is empty, yet the fans I see behind the dugoutthis is so typical it makes me laughare all Red Sox fans. And here I am, the only one left awake in the house, watching to the bitter end. Tom Caron and Dennis Eckersley break it down on Extra Innings, but really, what can you say about a game like this? The most obvious stat is 14 men left on base. Johnny D went 0 for 5 in the leadoff spot, Tek went 0 for 4. Timlin gave up three earned runs in twothirds of an inning (and one of those outs was Tek cutting down a runner on a risky pitchout). They pick on Pokey, showing the bunt attempt. Eck says he understands the strategy but, If it doesnt work, it looks horrible. They also examine Millars footwork on the throwing error charged to Pedro that kept the Os rally going. Instead of posting up at the front corner of the bag with his right foot so he can stretch towards Pedro with his left (and his glove), Millar is facing the bag with his left foot in the center so that he has to reach across his body to handle the throw. Basically, he nonchalanted it and cost us a couple of runs. I turn it off. Whats demoralizing isnt losingwell lose 6070 games this year (knock wood)its playing badly. If this had been the first week of the NFL season, the announcers would have said this team has a lot of work to do. April 5th I cant help running a quick postmortem, scanning the story in the morning paper. Francona stands by his man Sveum, saying Kapler would have been meat if hed gone. I hope this kind of denial isnt indicative of the new emperor. SK The bad news this morning is that the Red Sox lost their opener and Pedro looked very mortal. The good news is that there was baseball. SO Pedro had a bad inning, helped along by Millar. Still, he settled down after the second, and we were in the game till Timlin let it get away. Think Pokey bunted on his own? Is he going to be like Steve Psycho Lyons? SK Yeah, I think Pokey Reese bunted on his own, and I think it was the break point in the game for the Red Sox. You can say there are a lot of games left and I would agree, but Gil Hodges (I think it was Hodges) said, First games are big games, and if he meant they set the tone, I agree. And I know, I know, twoout rallies are always chancy. All the more reason to play it straight, right? Heres your situation Millar, who really only hits middle relievers with reliability, opens the fourth by flying out to center. Kapler singles. TekmoneyTeksmallchange in Aprilhits a batbusting pop to short. Two out. Bellhorn doubles. Runners at second and third, that sets the stage for Mr. Reese, who can tie the game with a righteous single. Instead, he buntshardand is out easily, pitcher to first. Easy to read his thinking Ponsons a porker, if I place it right, I get on to load em up for Johnny Damon, or maybe Kapler scores. But even if Kapler does score, were still behind, and that early in the game, youd think hed be swinging away. So yeahI think it was a plan he hatched in his own head, and a classic case of a baseball player taking dumb pills. Which leads me to something my elder son said this afternoon Dad, I dont envy you this bookyou could have picked the wrong year. A team this highoctane could stall with the wrong manager and be out of it in the first month. I dont say it will happen, but hes got a point, and I hope the Pokester got a stern talkingto about that bunt. I dont intend to deconstruct every gameor even most of thembut that bunt made me a lot more uneasy than the way Pedro Martinez threw on a cold night. Its Opening Day for the rest of the league, and ESPN has walltowall coverage. I catch pieces of the CubsReds game (Sean Casey, a Pittsburgh native, blasts a tworun double off of Kerry Wood); a rare TV appearance by the Pirates taking on Kevin Millwood and the Phils (my brothers somewhere in the freezing centerfield bleachers); and the Astros with Nolan Ryan in the dugout hosting Barry Bonds, Willie Mays and the Giants (lots of home run talk but not a word about steroids from Joe Morgan). I watch the games with mild interest, but cant commit to any of them. I wish the Sox were playing today so we could get back on the winning track and ditch this bad morningafter feeling. Its just impatience. Ive waited all winter for Schilling. I can wait one more day. April 6th I have to do a reading over in Bristol, Rhode Island. Its a gig I set up months ago, hoping it wouldnt interfere with Opening Day. It wont, but todays game in Baltimore starts at 305, and Im meeting a class then, and dining with the faculty at 530. My host, Adam, says we could have a beer in between and catch a few innings. We find a bar down by the water with the sun flooding through the windows. The place must have six TVs. None of them is showing the game. We start some chatter about Schilling making his debut, and a pair of regulars join the chorus. The barmaid finds NESN for the bigscreen on the wall. Beside it is a printout of a picture Ive seen on eBay a little towheaded boy about three years old in a Sox shirt on someones shoulders. Hes leaning toward the field, screaming and giving someone a tiny finger. Theres Schilling, sitting on the bench, going over something on a clipboard. Its 31 Sox in the seventh, and Embrees in. The Os only have six hits, so I assume Schilling threw well. The two locals at the bar next to us start grousing about Pedro leaving Sundays game before it was over. When are they gonna do something about him? In the eighth, Melvin Mora hits a mediumdeep fly to rightcenter. Johnny D drifts over. Its his ball, obviously, but Millar, unaccustomed to playing right, keeps coming. The memory of the pop falling between Johnny and Kapler Sunday night is still fresh, and neither takes his eyes off the ball. Johnny gets there first. As he makes the catch, his shoulder catches Millar flush in the face, knocking him on his ass like a vicious blindside on a kick return. Millar stays down. The guys in the truck roll the collision between Johnny and Damian Jackson in last years playoffs, Johnnys head snapping back and then the ambulance idling on the outfield grass. They show it twice, both times getting a vocal reaction from the whole bar. Then they show todays collision two more times. Millar spits a little blood, but he looks more dazed than anything, blinking and squeezing the bridge of his nose. He comes out and Cesar Crespo makes his debut as a right fielder. The next batter, Tejada, hits a fly to deep rightcenter. This time Johnny waves his throwing hand high above his head to call off Crespo, and thats the inning. Foulke is warming, but we have to go to dinnerwere already twenty minutes late. They look like theyre in good shape, Adam says as we head to the restaurant. Never say that, I say. SK Nice game today. It went almost exactly the way the BoSox geneticists would like them to go. You get six innings from Schilling, who gives up a single run. One inning from Embree (no runs), one inning from Timlin (no runs), and one from Foulke, who gets the save. Also on the plus side is my BOSOX CLUB hat, which seems to be quite lucky. I plan to wear it until the lining falls out. P.S. More questions about Francona (1) Was Pedro consciously testing the new managers authority by leaving when he did during the first game? (2) Was F. wrong to pull Manny from the field when he did, thus denying Manny the chance to bat in the ninth inning? (3) Whats up with his unwillingness to sacrifice the runners to the next base(s)? SO (1) Dunno whats up with Pedro, but it seems early to be riding the guy. (2) Yes, definitely a mistake to pull Manny when Millars the nonoutfielder out there (see what happened?). (3) His distaste for the sac bunt is straight from the Bill James bible dont give up any outs, even what we might think are necessary ones. SK Also, the guy just doesnt look like a manager to me. Yon Francona has a lean and stupid look. SO Well, Grady didnt exactly strike me as a Stephen Hawking figure. April 7th Not only did the Sox win, but the Yanks lost. The DRays beat on Mussina again, so theyre on top of the division. Go, you crazy Lou! Schilling threw 109 pitches yesterday, topping out at 98 mph. I know the gun down there is fast, because it clocked Ponson at 97, but still, knowing Schillings strong makes me optimistic about the season. While I was out yesterday, Matt from my agents office called and left a message with Steph that says he wants to talk about Opening Day. Im thinking it has to do with tickets, but its about Opening Day in Baltimore. He went. A friend came up with tickets at the last minute, and he put everything aside and hopped on a cheap flight. He says the wind was crazy; the two big oriole weather vanes on top of the scoreboard in center were spinning in opposite directions. He was surprised at the venom of the Os fans. After Pedro hit Segui, they were chanting Pedro Sucks. Im not surprised. Pedro can come off as arrogant, and after dominating for so long, hes earned some payback. The same with the Sox lately. Theyre a highpaid, highprofile club, and the seconddivision teams have a right to dislike them. Tonights game is a pitching mismatch, DLowe versus the young Kurt Ainsworth. This is one main strength of the 2004 Sox. Over the last two years, Lowes won more games that any AL pitcher except the Jays Roy Halladay. Part of the reason last year he led the league in run support, with over 7 runs a start. Ainsworth looks okay through the first, getting Ortiz and Manny (batting cleanup again). In the second he has runners on first and second with two out when Pokey hits a hopper to the hole. Tejada nabs it cleanly. Hes moving toward third, and looks to Mora for the force, but Moranot having the instincts of a third basemanis lagging behind the runner, and Tejada has to plant and throw across his body to first. After hesitating, theres no way hes getting Pokey, so now the bases are loaded. Johnny D slaps a single to left. Sveum, bizarrely, sends Bellhorn. The throw beats him by twenty feet, but comes in on a shorthop and Javy Lopez cant get a handle on it. 20, second and third. Bill Mueller hits a single to center. This time the trailing runner is Johnny, and he scores easily. Ainsworths upset and cant find the plate now, walking Ortiz. He goes 31 on Manny before Manny flies to center. Its well hit but should be caught. Ainsworth takes a few steps toward the dugout, watching Matos, who holds up both arms as if beseeching the sky. Hes lost it in the twilight. It hits the track by the base of the wall and bounces high, giving Ortiz more than enough time to chug around. 60. Millar rips a single to center. Matos has a shot at Manny, but his throw is offline. And thats it, thats more than enough. Johnny goes 5 for 5 and makes a spectacular grab, going over the fence in front of the Os bullpen to take a threerun homer away from David Segui; David Ortiz cranks a threerun shot down the line in right; Lowe throws well, and Pokey and Bellhorn do a nice job behind him; even Mendoza gets some work in; but really its a oneinning game. Its the kind of win that makes you complacentthat makes you see the Os as a bad club. Its not true. Like the opener, its just one game. We still have to beat them tomorrow with Wake to take the series. April 8th SK How about Damons catch last night? I saw it on tape. That was my game to miss, except for the eighth and ninth. Dinner with friends. Isnt it annoying, the way life keeps intruding on baseball? SO Besides Johnny having a big night, you didnt miss much. I think Baltimore needs to rethink trying to change Melvin Mora into a third baseman. Hes just lost out therelike Todd Walker, no instincts. Then after Lee Mazzilli and the media ream him out, he gets to go home to his wife and their twoyearold quints. No wonder he looks like hes going to break into tears any second. You want to hear life intruding on baseball? Ive been planning for months to take T to Chicago for our twentieth anniversarygot the plane tickets, hotel reservations, everything. Our first day there is the first game of the World Series. I say, Hey, maybe well be playing the Cubs. She says, Were not going there for the World Series. Im not playing second fiddle to the Red Sox. SK Oh God, does that ever sound familiar. Theyre playing our song. Theres an official tally of the Opening Day payrolls. Once again, the Yankees top the majors at 183 million. The Sox are second at 125, the Angels third at 101. By three Im getting antsy, and call Naomi. I call five times before I get her machine and leave a message. Before I pack the family in the car and drive a hundred miles, I want to know the tickets are going to be there. At a quarter to five, Naomi calls. Shes still not sure of the exact location, and the seats may be piggybackedtwo in front, two behindbut theyll be there. Thank you, Naomi; you came through like Tommy Brady. Im sorry I ever doubted you. Its sprinkling at Camden Yards and the stands are halfempty. Wakes going against a young lefty named Matt Riley whos coming off Tommy John surgery. Ortiz sits, Millar plays right, Burks DHs and McCarty gets a start at first. Mirabelli, who usually handles Wake, is behind the plate. Along with Bellhorn and Pokey, its not the most powerpacked lineup, so Im hoping Riley doesnt have much. He doesnt need much. Through eight, our five through nine guys are 0 for 10. The starters leave with the score tied 22, and then its the game that wont end. By the twelfth, only Dauber and Mendoza havent seen action (they show Dauber in the dugout in a Sox watch cap, bent over, his chin propped on the knob of his bat like the one kid who wasnt picked). Its been four hours now; everyone else has long since turned off ER and gone to bed, and with the Sox not scoring in the top of the innings, the bottoms are like a death watch, just waiting for the bad thing to happen. The twentyfifth man, Bobby Jones, is on for us, and gives up a leadoff single to Bigbie. Mazzilli chooses to play by the book and has Roberts bunt him over. With two outs and Jones behind 20 on Tejada, we walk him intentionally and then get Palmeiro to ground out on a nice charging play by Bellhorn that Todd Walker wouldnt have made. We do nothing in the thirteenth. Its raining again, and its past 1130. Jones, whos been going deep in the count to every batter, walks Lopez to start the inning. Bautista tries to bunt him across only once, then strikes out. The umps noticeably squeezing the zone on Jones on righties, where, in the tenth, he called two pitches well up and in strikes to lefties Tek and Bill Mueller. On 31, Segui swings but steals a walk by running down to first. On 32, Matos takes an agonizingly close pitch. The ump gives him the home call, and with one out the bases are loaded. Bigbies up. Jones has him struck out on a 12 pitchdown the pipe, not a nibble jobbut, again, the ump doesnt call it. Part of its the lateness of the hour, part of its the weather, and part has to be just a lack of respect. Jones dips his head and walks in a circle behind the mound. Ortiz visits from first to calm him down. A borderline pitch and its 32. And then the payoff pitch is up and out, and the games over. The camera follows Jones off, expecting hell say something in the direction of the ump. To his credit, he doesnt. I only watch Extra Innings for a minute, just long enough to hear Eck say, Not pretty. As I get ready for bed, I keep replaying the game in my mind, running over the whatifs, worrying that well need this game somewhere down the road. And it was winnable. There was no good reason we lost it, just a terrible ump. I make a note to find his name in the paper tomorrow. April 9th His name is Alfonso Marquez. Its said an umpires done a good job when no one notices him or her. Hey, Marquez, I got my eye on you. The paper says Nomar, though hes still on the DL, will be in uniform for the opener today, as if that will placate the crowd. We get going a half hour late, but still arrive a good hour before game time. Parking is horrific. The main lot by the hospital is full, and we cruise Beacon Street down to Coolidge Corner, then try the side streets. We find a spot in a quiet neighborhood about a half mile away and hump it in. Anyone sellin? the scalpers call, but no one is. The Will Call windows are mobbed, and incredibly slow. I wait in line for half an hour, and fear were going to miss the first pitch. As we cut in to get to our section, I realize were right at Canvas Alley, where the grounds crew hangs out. Up the stairs, and theres the green of the field and the Monster and the jammed bleachers with the scoreboard on top. Our seats are right on the alley, about ten rows back. Weve missed the first pitch from Arroyo, but hes still working on the first batter. The milk bottles gone, Trudy says, and I look up to the roof in right field. The light stanchion there is bare, looming above three tiers of new tables squeezed in beneath a long BUDWEISER sign. The Hood milk bottle used to flash whenever a Sox pitcher struck someone out, and Hood would donate money in the pitchers name to the Jimmy Fund. I guess milk and beer dont mix. Also new are Torontos black road uniforms, which I dont like. They look exactly like the DRays. Arroyo gets through the first, but makes his own trouble in the second by walking two. The bases are loaded when Reed Johnson doubles off the Monster. 20 Jays. Behind us are four guys in the brewpub business. One of them is constantly on the phone, trying to cut a deal, hollering as if he doesnt believe the signal will reach. We can bring a hundred thousand to start, he says. I want to say we can go oneten, onetwenty if we have to. He has this conversation with a dozen people, as if hes clearing the deal with his partners. Buddy, its Opening Day. TURN OFF YOUR CELL PHONE. In the third Bellhorns on second with two down when Johnny comes up. Save us, Jebus! a girl beside us yells, a nifty Simpsons reference. Johnny fouls one off his knee that puts him on the ground. He cant be hurt, we cant afford it, and everyone cheers when he stands in again and bloops one down toward us that drops, making it 21. The next batter, Bill Mueller, hits another bloop toward us, spinning foul. Delgados got no shot at it, but Orlando Hudson sprints all the way from second to the line and dives. I see the ball land in his glove just as he disappears, thumping into the padded wall. I have to check the firstbase ump shadowing the play he clenches his fist in the out sign. Hudsons still not up, we cant see him at all, and then Delgado pulls him to his feet. His whole left side including his hat is covered with dirt, and we give him a standing O. That is some major league baseball. I hope I catch the replay on ESPN to see how he did it. By now the crowds settled and Trudy and Steph make a run to the concession stand. Theres a new 3D cup this year with the four starters on it, along with Fenway, a flag and an eagle left over from the 2002 model. The company hasnt proofread the thing Schilling is spelled SHILLING. And will be all season long. In the fourth, Arroyo lets in two more. Hes just not sharp. But in the bottom of the inning Manny turns on an inside pitch and rips one off of Hinske at third (the ball rolling into the dugout, giving him secondits not an error for Hinske, just a hard chance and a bruise), Ortiz doubles to knock him in, and with two gone we load the bases for Pokey. He hits a floating liner to left. It looks like it should be caught, but it sails over Frank Catalanottos head to the base of the wall, and the games tied at 4. When the inning ends, I head for the restroom and the concession stand. Everyone else has the same idea, and after Ive tracked down some commemorative Opening Day balls, a Cuban sandwich for Trudy and a bag of Swedish fish for Caitlin, Im walking across the big concourse behind right field when a roar goes up from the crowd, and then a roar on top of that that makes everyone turn.