(4 of 6)
I had been so deep into Sox-Yanks for a week now, I had barely realized that the Cubs had gotten themselves to the verge. And here they were. My sister goes upstairs, and I am alone with the final ballgame of a long day. Over the next several minutes, as I slouch, holding my glass on my stomach, lifting it occasionally to my lips, I watch a fan catch a ball in the left-field stands, a shortstop boot a grounder, Prior turn into a pumpkin, the Marlins score eight runs and the collective visage of the Wrigleyites turn into one which has just witnessed something concocted by Stephen King (who, by the way, failed in his efforts to de-hex Fenway only hours earlier; it has been a very spooky day all 'round). Now my emotions are even more conflicted than before:
Good God.
Poor kid; not his fault.
Well, they're at home and they've got flamethrowing Kerry Wood going tomorrow, and we'll be back in Yankee Stadium and we've got . . .
John Burkett, who I understand is a fine bowler in his spare time.
I am unhappy with myself, my miserableness and my meanness. It seems that if we can't win it all — or at least beat the Yankees — I don't want the Cubbies to win, either. I don't understand that Curse of the Billy Goat thing, but if we can't shake the Bambino, why should they be able to shed their goat? Let the world get Yanks-Marlins, and I hope the ratings crash through the floor. Hey, best of all: Let the Marlins win.
I am at this point, it does not need to be said, in a thoroughly foul mood. I go to bed after the carnage in Chicago has ended, and awake the next morning to a torrential downpour that reflects the state of all baseball affairs (as I am seeing them). My sister drives me to Logan, and I suffer a suitably bumpy plane flight down to New York. This stiff wind is probably blowing straight out at the Stadium, and will no doubt lift a couple of Bernie or Nick or Derek dingers later in the day.
Work is slow, and then at 3:30 I hop the D Train for the Bronx along with Bob, the friend and colleague who was briefly mentioned in Part II of this diary. I have those two seats in the bleachers again, and I figure if I didn't offer Bob one today — his pinstripe loyalty notwithstanding — then he wouldn't get to see a game. What a sport I am.
So, Game Six: We begin it in a bar, and are still there, since the bleacher line across the street is extensive, when Giambi hits a first-inning homer off our semipro bowler. The bar explodes in excitement. Bob is truly sympathetic: "This must be hard for you."
"Brutal," I admit. "Just brutal." We finish our beers and head for the Stadium. Bob seems to have a spring in his step.
In Section 57, I'm still keeping my Red Sox affiliation under wraps. I'm not into the games-playing with my neighbors that enlivened Game One for me here, though I am still cordial with my beefy friend in the Row M. When the Sox go meekly in the second, I offer to Bob, "I'm miserable. You know, the only thing this club did all year was hit. And the only thing they haven't done a bit of in this series is hit."
In the third inning, they start to hit — even against Andy Pettite, who's pure money, they start to hit. Varitek hits it a mile; Nomar gets a hit, even though it's not much of a hit. "He's on his one-base-at-a-time recovery program." But finally, just as suddenly as the Yanks were up 3-0 against Lowe, the Sox are ahead here 4-1. Then Grady gives it back, sticking with the bowler way too long in the fourth. Five-four Yanks, then 6-4 when they add a run in the fifth. We're using young Arroyo and barely-on-the-roster Jones, and they're getting nicked but not nailed.