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  Meanwhile, the Yanks are winning again. Guess Derek Jeter won’t have to hang up his spikes after all…but then, I never really thought he would. But we live in hope.

  Chilly up here in God’s country, but still—great to be home.

  SO: Welcome back to the land of boulders and cold water.

  You look at a guy like Bellhorn, and he’s all about on-base percentage, working the walk early, middle and late, and he can still get the bat off his shoulder to knock a run in with a sac fly or a single. He’s the guy they hoped Jeremy Giambi would be. But you’re right, we need our big guys to be knocking these runners in. Ortiz is leaving lots of guys on. The problem is, once you get past Manny (by walking him or just not throwing him anything to hit), our five-thru-nine guys are struggling mightily. I don’t expect Pokey to carry that weight, or Kapler or Bellhorn, but Tek, Millar and Dauber (who popped up first-pitch hitting to end that game) have to produce out of the 5 and 6 spots. And Bill Mueller—who got shoved down in the order last night—just hasn’t been getting it done in the #2 hole. Lots of blame to go round. Our cushion over the Yanks is gone. Essentially, it’s a brand-new season. Dammit.

  May 5th

  Mr. Kim’s going tonight, his second start of the season. He’s shaky, but Big David hits a solo homer and then a three-run shot to give him some breathing room. Which we immediately give back when, on three consecutive plays, Kim uncorks a wild pickoff throw, Bellhorn lets an easy grounder through his legs, and Millar kicks a single around right field. It’s 5–5 and time for Mystery Malaska, who shuts Cleveland down. Bronson Arroyo’s next out of the pen. He’s in direct competition for the number 5 spot with Kim, and makes a statement by throwing two scoreless innings while risky David Riske comes in for Cleveland and surrenders a first-pitch three-run rainbow to Bill Mueller.

  In the middle of the game, we switch to ESPN to check on the Pirates, who are facing Clemens, and find out that Piazza’s hit the homer he’s been waiting for so long, finally overtaking Pudge. The commentator says he’s now “the greatest home-run-hitting catcher in history.”

  “No,” I correct him, “he just has the most homers.”

  Each time Manny comes to the plate, everyone in Jacobs Field boos except for a woman’s tiny voice picked up by the microphone: “We love you, Manny.” With two down and two strikes on him in the ninth, the crowd rises, hoping for some payback, and Manny hits a screw-you double off the wall in right-center. When Tek singles, Sveum—up three runs—gets aggressive and sends Manny. Manny doesn’t expect it; he hasn’t been running hard from second and has to turn it on. The throw from Jody Gerut’s a two-hopper, in time, but Victor Martinez is too worried about Manny and drops it. 9–5 Sox, and a very quiet crowd.

  SK: So the five-game skid is history, Bronson Arroyo gets a W, and David Ortiz gets a couple of dingers. One more milepost on the long, long road. The important thing—the thing that absolutely should go in the book—is that I happened to watch one of those ads for Foxwoods Casino with the sound turned off and had a revelation: all of the people in the ad—gamblers, entertainers, cooks, waiters, and waitresses—look like utter lunatics.

  We must go there, Stewart.

  We must go there soon.

  SO: If you really wanna go, let’s go when we can catch a Norwich Navigators game (maybe against Portland); they’re right up the road, and their little double-A park’s nice. Great cheeseburgers too.

  May 6th

  When I went to bed last night, the Yanks were losing late in Oakland to Barry Zito. The first thing I do when I wake up is hit ESPN, and, perfect timing, they’re showing the highlights. Both BALCO boys went deep for the Yanks. They’re down 3–2 in the ninth when A-Rod’s up with no outs and no one on. He swings, and just the way the camera pans toward the stands, zooming on the crowd, lets me know the ball’s gone. Then with two down and two on, Tony Clark hits a quail toward the gap in left that the A’s outfielder can’t quite get to. 4–3 Yanks. And then there’s Mariano Rivera dealing with two on and two out, and the A’s last hope pops to second.

  Not the way I wanted to start the day. So the Yanks are playing like the regular season means something. And the A’s, for all of Billy Beane’s genius, still haven’t figured out that great starters are useless without a decent pen.

  SK: Meet me at Foxwoods.

  Meanwhile, as for Bronson versus BK, all I can say is that I have rarely seen any pitcher in my life who looked as uncomfortable on the mound as Mr. Kim did last night. Memo to Theo Epstein: It’s time to rent that video, FINDING NOMO.

  And the Yankees are apparently not going to lose again this season.

  Or so it looks now.

  I still think this year’s Yankee tootsies are made of clay.

  SO: They scored on Mr. Kim every inning he was out there. If Theo doesn’t get FINDING NOMO, he might be calling Bronson on the TELEFON.

  The great Criswell predicts: The Yanks lose to-nite. Let it be so.

  And that’s clay and steroids.

  A nice matchup for the final game of the Cleveland set: Pedro, who’s undefeated lifetime in Jacobs Field, against their young ace C. C. Sabathia. Sabathia comes out blazing, while Matt Lawton puts Pedro’s first pitch over the wall in dead center. Two hits and a grounder later, we’re down 2–0.

  It’s a fast game, with both aces going right after batters. Old-time hockey, eh? Lou Merloni’s playing third for them, which is just weird. Pokey triples, but we strand him.

  In the sixth, Bellhorn doubles. Kapler singles, and Sveum, down two runs with nobody out, holds Bellhorn. Ortiz grounds into a DP, but Bellhorn scores, and then Manny, who owns Sabathia, plants one in the right-field stands to tie the game. Meanwhile, Pedro’s only given up one hit since the first inning.

  In the seventh, McCarty’s on first with two down and Pokey at the plate. I tell Steph that Pokey’s going to hit a double to the gap and we’ll get to see big, gangly McCarty come wheeling all the way around. Unlike most of my hip-shot predictions, this one comes true—McCarty pumping his arms like a crazed windmill—and we’ve got the lead. Bellhorn comes up and doubles down the line in right, and Pokey scores easily. 4–2.

  Pedro’s been waiting awhile and struggles in the bottom of the inning, putting two on with one out, and who should step in but Lou. I’ve always had a soft spot for Lou, but we need a win here. He grounds one to Pokey—tailor-made double-play ball—and I’m pissed when Bellhorn loses his grip on the transfer. Millar, of all people, bails him out with the glove, making a tough catch in foul ground down the right-field line.

  We add a run in the eighth, and on comes Embree to set up and Foulke to close.

  May 7th

  As the great Criswell predicted, the Yankees did indeed lose. Vazquez faltered in the middle innings, so we’re a game up on them. The buzz is just temporary, since it appears now that Nomar won’t be back till June, and Trot has problems with his left quad and is sitting. “We need those guys,” David Ortiz says, “like a human being needs to be fed every day.”

  Last night Steph noticed that Ron Jackson was coaching first. The paper has the answer: Lynn Jones hurt his eye at home in northwestern Pennsylvania. It sounds serious, because Francona says, “There’s a chance they can save some of his eyesight.”

  Our league-best record is long gone, obviously, but I’m shocked to find that distinction now belongs to the Angels, with the surprising White Sox right behind them. The season’s so young that one hot streak puts you on top.

  Tomorrow we’ve got Monster seats, front row, and I call the Sox customer service line to see if I can bring my fishing net for BP. The woman who answers doesn’t know. She asks around the office; the consensus is that security will probably not let it in, but there’s no set policy. I tell her I’ll try. Got to make them make the play, right?

  Tonight it’s Wake and his 2.25 ERA against Jeremy Affeldt, who’s yet to win a game. I’m thinking we should score a bunch of runs, but it’s Wake who struggles. It’s a windy night—usually good for
a knuckler—but his ball looks awful straight. It also doesn’t help that in the third we have Carlos Beltran picked off first but Bellhorn—maybe distracted by Desi Relaford trying to score from third—drops Millar’s toss. It’s 2–0, but not for long. In our half, Johnny answers with a leadoff shot over the Royals’ pen. Bellhorn singles, Manny singles for the second time, Millar doubles. Tie game.

  Between innings, the camera finds Trot in the dugout—a nice surprise—and there’s Prince Nomar. Neither’s close to being ready; it’s more of a token appearance to raise morale.

  Word on Lynn Jones is that somehow he gouged his eye with a screwdriver. They’re still not sure if he’ll regain sight in it. While he’s out, former Sox catcher Bill Haselman, who played with the PawSox last year, will coach first.

  In the sixth, Wake gives up five hits and Bill Mueller rushes a throw on a chopper, sailing it into the stands. The Royals score four runs before the creaky Benito Santiago grounds into a round-the-horn double play.

  By the eighth Affeldt’s pitch count is pushing 110. He’s a young guy but he’s never gone this deep in a game before. Tony Pena must want to conserve his pen for the rest of the series, because he leaves him in. Manny singles for the third time. Kapler hits a short fly to left that the wind takes away from Matt Stairs; it falls, and we’ve got first and second for Mirabelli, who lines one into the left-field corner. Stairs fires the ball in to second, but it’s wide and gets by Relaford, and Kapler scoots in to make it 6–4.

  Timlin throws a perfect top of the ninth. Before Johnny can lead off the bottom, two fans run out on the field, delighting the crowd. When Johnny finally gets up, he’s laughing and loose, and walks on a pitch that’s really too close to take. MacDougal, the Royals’ young closer, stares in at veteran ump Joe West; West whips off his mask and stares back. A passed ball puts Johnny at second, so we don’t have to worry about the double play. With Bellhorn up, I expect we’re in for a long at-bat, but he gets a pitch belt-high and yanks it deep to right. Juan Gonzalez runs a few steps toward the corner, then pulls up as the ball lands a dozen rows in. The game’s tied at 6 and Fenway’s on its feet. Here in Avon, we’re hollering and trading high fives.

  They don’t want to pitch to Manny with the game on the line, but they don’t intentionally walk him either, just nibble a little and then stay away on 3-2.

  MacDougal’s gone and righty Scott Sullivan’s on. With two down, Francona pinch-hits the switch-hitting Tek for the righty Kapler. Tek rips Sullivan’s first pitch down the right-field line for a sure double. Manny’s running on contact. The ball skims along the wall instead of kicking out. “Don’t touch it!” I coach the fans past the Pesky Pole. I see other fans along the wall doing the same with their neighbors, holding their arms out wide as if to prove they’re not fouling anyone. Gonzalez scoops the ball and fires to Relaford, whose relay to Santiago is just enough off the plate to the first-base side to let Manny tiptoe in standing up. He leaps into the arms of Kevin Millar and the Sox win 7–6. Here at home, Steph and I are jumping and high-fiving, slapping at each other like first-graders.

  It’s a huge win—a steal, really. Two in the eighth, then three in the ninth off a cold closer. Manny ran hard all the way and Sveum sent him in—classic strategy at home: play for the win and make them throw you out. I watch Extra Innings, wallowing in the highlights and locker-room interviews. Sox win, Sox win!

  SO: Man, what a wild one. I’m still short of breath from screaming. It’s amazing how loud you have to yell at the TV so the players can hear you.

  SK: …so it was spoken, and so it was. My God, Bellhorn’s starting to look like the deal of the century, isn’t he? (BELLHORN, BOOK, AND CANDLE, starring Spencer Tracy). He cranks one to get us even, and then Manny (MANNY THE TORPEDOES, starring Randolph Scott) struts across home plate three minutes later, arms raised like a ref signaling the extra point’s good. And all at once we’ve got a little breathing room between us and the Yankees. Have you noticed, by the way, that on Extra Innings they now play Darth Vader music before giving the Yankees score? And call them the Evil Empire? Hee! Hating the Yankees is very much in vogue, but since we were doing it long before Yankee-hating was cool (outside of New England, that is), I’m sending you your own YANKEES HATER hat, with the spiffy yh intertwined logo on the front.

  Also, the Coen Brothers remake: MUELLER’S CROSSING.

  And the Hammer Horror remake: CURSE OF THE DAMON, titled JOHNNY EVIL for DVD release.

  The art-film classic LEAVING NOMAR.

  That gritty piece of ’50s realism: I TROTTED ALL THE WAY HOME.

  The soft-core classic PLEASE ME ORTIZ ME.

  Nor can we forget the hardcore STROKE ME POKEY.

  Bottom line? Baseball’s a wonderful game. There’s no greater thrill than when your team pulls one out. And you can’t get that from a newspaper story. TV’s better, but there’s really nothing on God’s earth like being at the ballpark and getting on your feet in the bottom of the ninth, hot dog still in hand, when the Sox pull one out. If Heaven’s that good, I guess I wanna go.

  Born Again in New England.

  SO: Was at a game last year against Clemboy and the Yanks where John Williams threw out the first ball (I think he bounced it), and when Clem jogged out to the pen, the PA played Lord Vader’s March—perfect for a guy who started out as a headstrong young Jedi apprentice from a dusty, forlorn planet, then felt betrayed and hurt, grew power-mad and crossed over to the dark side.

  May 8th

  What’s better than the Sox winning? The Sox winning and the Yanks losing. Last night the Mariners rocked Jon Lieber, so we’re two games up. And we can’t forget the O’s, just a half game behind them. Toronto’s under .500, and Tampa Bay’s already in a death spiral. That’s the kind of year a fan fears—out of the chase by May (like the Pirates, who got one-hit last night). As Sox fans, we need to remember how lucky we are.

  And we’re damn lucky today, with front-row seats on the Monster. All along Lansdowne, people stare at the net; Trudy pretends she’s not with me. The guy at the turnstile asks me what I think I’m going to do with it, but just laughs and lets me through. Trudy and the kids can’t believe I’m getting away with this.

  The Royals are hitting, clumps of players spread around the outfield. It’s a bright cool day up on the Monster, and the wind’s in our faces, perfect for home runs. We’re in M9, next to the second light standard, but that’s too far toward center. I stake my claim to an empty spot in M5 above the power alley.

  I’ve just started to extend the handle when a ball comes right at me. It’s going to be short. I reach out and down. I’d have it if the handle were fully extended.

  “Hey, no fair!” Trudy calls from M9. “That’s cheating.”

  With the handle fully extended, the net’s about ten feet long, giving me incredible range. It really is unfair.

  Mike Sweeney’s taking his cuts. He sends one directly over my head. I raise the net straight up and even jump, but the ball carries over it, banging off the third-row facade and then back past us and down to the field again.

  A few swings later, Sweeney hits one just to my right. It’s going to be close. I scoot a few steps and swing the net over. The ball clanks off the handle and drops at my feet. Inelegant, but hell, it’s a ball, and Sweeney’s as good a player as they’ve got.

  I’m not sure who hits me the next one. It’s right at me, and a few feet out from the lip, so I’m not taking it away from anyone, but I misjudge it and it bangs off the handle a good foot from the head of the net, and falls back to the field. The boos and laughs shower down, and I slump back in a stool and hang my head. “Nice going, Netman.” “Netguy, you suck!”

  The guy beside me points out a dent in the handle. It’s a good-sized ding, the metal buckled inward. I can’t close the handle all the way anymore.

  Juan Gonzalez puts a bunch out by the Coke bottles, and then some guy in a blue fleece sweatshirt hits another right at me. It rises past the solid background of the roof
and up into the blue sky, then falls fast. It’s going to be short, and I dip the net out and down. I don’t think I’ve got enough reach, but I must, because it’s a swish, just a gentle tug on my arms and then the ball swinging in the mesh, caught. The crowd goes wild. “Yeah, go ahead, Netman!” “Hey, gimme one—isn’t it catch and release?”

  The ball has a pink stamp on the sweet spot: KCR enclosed by a thin circle, like something on special at CVS. The hitter was Benito Santiago—the BEN from his bathead’s imprinted backwards across the cowhide.

  Like Mark Bellhorn, I had a chance to redeem myself. And just in time too, because that’s it for BP. Packing up, I’m visited by two people. A burly security dude who tells me I’ll have to surrender the net to him before game time (so I don’t interfere with play), and a reporter for the Greenfield, Mass, paper who saw the catch and wants to interview me. I get to use my Bellhorn analogy. “You’re down one minute and the next you’re up again. That’s baseball.” And, canned and corny as that sounds, it is: as long as you keep at it—stubbornly, dumbly—something good might happen.