(3 of 3)
Its gonna be interesting to see what our bullpen is on August first, I said. Theos gotta do something.
David Sedaris had attracted three or four hundred to the bookstore the previous weekend. We moved the podium out to here, Zack told me as we walked into the events room. Our Red Sox, by contrast, lured a mixed crowd of perhaps twenty on a thick night that promised thunderstorms (the author said by way of explanation). Zack made a gracious introduction, I read a few bits, and then we entered into question-and-answer. We mercifully dealt with Foulke in under five minutes, and then moved on to more substantial things: How do you get all those tickets? Down where you live, do the Yankees take us as seriously as we take them?
That was interesting. Now that I think about it, I said, I think they do—finally. We used to be just like the Mets to them. They knew we considered it a big rivalry, but they were the Yankees, eternal kings, and had no real rivals. Thats how the fans felt, anyway. The Mets and Sox were pretenders with pretensions, and could feel however they liked. But the Yankees bestrode all of baseball. When they beat the Mets in the World Series, then beat us in 2003, that became an even stronger stance. We were insects. They were swatting. Now, though—after last year, particularly the way it happened, and after 56 games with the Sox over two years and whats already happened this season—its all about us. Theres no one but us. I told my friend Stan on the train the other day, Its gonna be September 25th, were gonna be arguing here about one another—Giambi and Foulke—and then were gonna turn to the sports pages and find out weve both just been mathematically eliminated by Toronto.
I was wrapping up for the night when a man who had been listening in the back tentatively raised his hand. He was obviously from here: T-shirt, a two-day beard, slightly soiledgreen ballcap, a bit shy. Its not fair to say he was the furtive figure in the room, but he was, somehow, a New Englander. Id never seen him in the store before, Zack told me later. He obviously came because of this book.
Yes, sir? I said.
Do you know of Joe Cronin? he asked.
Sure, I said. A great Sox. Player and manager, one of the very few uniform numbers that have been retired by the team. His numbers up there on the right-field wall with Teds and . . . I unloaded all that I knew about Cronin. Unfortunately, I dont think Joes in the book. It doesnt reach quite that far back.
Ah, the man said. I was wondering because, well, were looking into it, and I guess, as it turns out, I guess Im related to Joe Cronin.
Really? I said. Wow. I had no idea what else to say.
The following morning I took a ten-mile run in a placid valley beneath the Green Mountains—a stream, a junkyard dog, an 18th-century one-room schoolhouse, a falconry camp, farms, farms, more farms—then enjoyed a nice breakfast drenched in the worlds best maple syrup and, after shopping, pointed the Honda south. I decided to take the shunpikes down to Brattleboro, hotting village after village. In funky Jamacia, Vermont, I stopped and bought the kids some maple moose pops at the general store. The longhaired kid at the cash register was talking Sox with his pal as he made change. I dont think were gonna get there this year, he said.
Me neither, said the friend. Freakin bullpen. He didnt say freakin.
Need a bullpen.
Freakin Foulke. See what Riveras doin?
It still, always, for us, comes quickly round to the Yankees.
That evenings gig was played to an even smaller house at the no-less-fine Odyssey Bookstore in South Hadley, Mass. There had indeed been a couple of Yanks fans among the Vermonters, but as I was now gravitating closer to the Hub I was entering the realm inhabited exclusively by devotees of the scarlet hose. I read about the seventh game of last years ALCS, then opened it up for discussion, which was almost exclusively about the afternoons announcement: Schilling was headed for the bullpen, probably as the closer.
Brilliant.
Nuts.
A stopgap.
Desperation.
Could be great.
Could be a disaster.
Interesting, anyway.
Fun.
I entirely agreed with this last assessment of the move, and it was precisely why I thought the move was a good one. It amused me. The folks whove been driving the club the last couple of years are clearly having a ball, and are constantly thinking outside the box—whether its Dr. Charless divertissements or Theos trading of Nomar. Theyve kept the game fun—even, often, funny—for the fans. Here was another idea that at least made you perk up, and probably made you smile. The Big Guy in the pen, you said to yourself. Wild. Well, well see.
We would, but not this night, as the Sox were opposing the (now second-place) Os down in Baltimore, while I was driving east from South Hadley through monsoon-like showers, flipping from this local station to the next on the many-hamleted Red Sox Radio Network. Finally on 495 north from Worcester I was able to lock onto the flagship station, WEEI, and I rode that home to Chelmsford. Home. Well, my former home. Still Moms. Where I would bunk this night before tomorrows midday meet-and-greet at the bookstore in downtown Lowell.
Scoobie, the dog, roused Mom when I arrived, and she got up to watch the last three innings with me, and to do some catching up. I was on the couch Dad used to use to watch NESN (he died three years ago), and Mom was on hers. Theyre going good, she said. First place.
Yeah, I said. Cant complain. But weve got problems.
The bullpen, Mom said. Foulke. She always knew what you needed to know.
Did you hear todays news: Schillings going to be the closer.
No kidding? Mom said. Well, that could be fun.
Exactly.
Timlin was solid in saving that nights game, and I got a good nights sleep before taking a jog at dawn through the old neighborhoods—West Chelmsford, where Id played Wiffle ball, back towards the center of town, where Id played sandlot and then Little League. So many Red Son bumper stickers on the cars in the driveways these days, so many Sox pennants and flags hanging on the porches.
A nice, steady flow of people came to the Lowell store that day, spurred no doubt by an article that my friend, Dave Perry, had written about the book in the Lowell Sun. Mr. Taranto, my old science teacher, came with his wife and granddaughter (who insisted I sign her Junie B. Jones book, even though I demurred that I had nothing to do with writing it). Mrs. Donahue, my old doubles partner in the city tennis tournament, dropped by. (I had to sign her book Bobby Sullivan.) Old customers of my dads at the Union National Bank and my moms at the Jeanne DArc Credit Union—unknown to me, but wanting to be remembered to Mom—showed up. High school friends. Strangers. A guy who worked security for the Patriots who never took his sunglasses off and wanted his book personalized to Fast Frank.
Frank?
Make it Fast Frank. Whatever you say, Fast Frank.
Dave Perry himself arrived near the end, and Chaz Scoggins as well. Afterwards, Bruce Robinson, whom Ive been tight with since kindergarten, joined Chaz and me for a couple of rounds at a nearby Irish pub. None of us knew for sure if the Schilling thing would work, but as Bruce said: Spices it up. We talked about old times, back when the Sox were losers, and remarked how times change. We discussed, at some length, that mornings bombings in London, and said the unoriginal thing: What a world.
That evening, Bruce and I played a little tennis with Barry and Mike—other old friends—then enjoyed a cookout at Bruces place. Next morning I breakfasted with Mom, then drove back to Westchester. The weekend before last, there was that neighborhood party, followed by the summer fulcrum: the All-star break. I thought the several Sox acquitted themselves nicely in the not-very-interesting game. Tito managed about as well as he has since joining the club. Save some of that, Terry.
And then the Yanks again. What to make of those four days? A disaster, of course. Game One exposed our frail bullpen anew. Game Two was all about the Yankees starting-pitching problems. Game Three showed how bad were playing, even this late in the season: base-running screw-ups, a desultory air permeating Fenway on a sultry day—even though the Yankees were in town. Game Four was this droning ballgame that you just knew we werent going to win. Wakefield goes nine, but gives up just enough homers. Stopgap Leiter holds the Sox just enough at bay. Sturtze, Gordon and Mo are able if not automatic. Blah, blah, blah.
Thats the thing about the Reigning World Champs with two and a-half months left to play: They seem to have the blahs. Maybe the return of Gabe Kapler will juice the clubhouse, maybe whatever move Theo makes in the next two weeks will. The crucial item to remember is: Twelve months ago the team was similarly scuffling at this point, and it wasnt in first place. Tom Gordon was pitching well for the Yankees 12 months ago, not having yet burned out—as he will again this summer. Randy Johnson wasnt really all that good on Saturday; he should have given up six earned in six innings. The loss of Wang is huge for the Yanks. They still havent solved center field.
Then again, our boy Millar has four homers. Renteria hasnt looked like much in the clutch. Schilling? That wildcard spot doesnt appear to be as readily available as it has been in recent years. Baltimore may linger, and the Blue Jays have improved. Halladays the very definition of lights-out.
Its time to focus. Im glad Ive got no more readings scheduled in the next little while; it feels odd recounting Game Seven yet again, when I know the team is, even then, out on some American ballfield, losing. Blowing a lead in the seventh. Giving up a walk-off in the ninth.
Dick Durrell tells me the championship trophy is in Fairfield later this week. Thats fine, but I think Ill give it a miss. Weve got some ball to play.
v