Change-up (28 page)

“People forget that even after Buckner’s famous error in game six, the Red Sox led three to nothing in game seven,” Susan Carol pointed out after Okajima had retired the Nats one-two-three in the eighth.

“Just like this game,” Stevie said.

“Yes. Except in that game the Red Sox bullpen collapsed and the Mets won eight to five. That’s not happening here.”

The bottom of the eighth was remarkable because Doyle only threw five pitches. The Red Sox clearly seemed to think all his pitches were hittable, and since he hadn’t walked anyone since the first inning, they were swinging at everything. Jason Bay popped up on the first pitch; Mike Lowell took a ball and a strike and then hit a fly ball just short of the Green Monster in left field; and J.D. Drew lined the first pitch right at Aaron Boone at first base.

“Ninety-three pitches,” Svrluga said. “He might just come out to pitch the ninth.”

“They’re still hitting the ball hard,” Stevie said.

“But not in the right places,” Susan Carol said.

Francona went with the old baseball strategy of bringing
in your closer to pitch the top of the ninth in a tie game at home—the thinking being if he gets three outs, your team can win the game in the bottom of the ninth. Jonathan Papelbon could pitch at least two innings if the score stayed tied.

“He should be fresh,” Maske said. “He only threw eleven pitches last night.”

Stevie noticed both Lannan and Hanrahan warming in the bullpen as the ninth started. Clearly, they were the only two guys out there that Acta trusted.

Boone led off the ninth. Perhaps not wanting to give up
another
October home run to him with a game on the line, Papelbon walked him on four pitches. The crowd stirred nervously.

Wil Nieves was next. “He has to bunt,” Susan Carol said.

“I’m not sure he
can
bunt,” Svrluga said. “He’s not the kind of guy you ask to bunt.”

Acta asked Nieves to bunt. Sure enough, he fouled the first two pitches off, and everyone assumed he would be swinging away with two strikes on him. But on the third pitch he actually pushed a bunt down the first-base line. Surprised, Papelbon fielded it and threw to Kevin Youkilis for the first out.

“Amazing he got a bunt down,” Maske said.

Next up was shortstop Cristian Guzman. Papelbon had no trouble with him, striking him out on a 97-mph fastball. Two men were out and Boone was still on second.

Up came leadoff hitter Austin Kearns, who had been
moved to that spot in July to try to snap him out of a slump. He had hit so well there that he had stayed. Kearns worked the count full with three balls and two strikes, then fouled off four straight pitches. Each time Papelbon stretched to try to get the last strike, every fan in the ballpark was on their feet trying to will him to get the last out. He kept throwing fastballs, and Kearns kept fouling them off.

“He throws a breaking pitch, Kearns might break his back trying to swing at it,” Maske said.

“He won’t,” Svrluga said. “He won’t see anything but a fastball.”

He almost got the next fastball by him, but Kearns somehow hit it off his fists toward right field. Dustin Pedroia went back as right fielder J.D. Drew charged in. The ball landed smack in between them. Drew, who had been playing fairly deep to try to cut off an extra-base hit, charged the rolling ball as Boone flew around third base heading for home. Stevie felt himself hold his breath as Drew came up throwing.

The ball came in to Varitek on one bounce as Boone dove for the plate. The throw was just a tad off-line, and Varitek had to move up the first-base line, grab it, and then dive at Boone.

Boone slid wide to avoid the tag and groped for the plate with his left hand. Varitek swiped at him and held the ball up to show that it was in his hand. But John Hirschbeck, the home plate umpire, shook his head at Varitek and pointed to the spot on home plate where Boone’s hand had swiped it just a split second before the
tag. Hirschbeck gave the safe sign as the entire ballpark exploded in boos of disbelief.

Boone,
again
a villain in Boston, leaped to his feet and was pounded on the back by his teammates as he headed to the dugout. There were TV sets in the auxiliary press box, and Fox showed the play again several times. Each time it was clear Hirschbeck had the call right. Boone’s hand brushed the plate an instant before the diving Varitek tagged him with the glove.

“They got it right,” Susan Carol said above the din. “He was safe.”

Most of the Red Sox and their fans clearly disagreed. Francona came out briefly to argue, but it wasn’t going to do any good.

Ronnie Belliard popped to shortstop for the final out, but the Nationals had the lead 4–3.

“Three outs away,” Susan Carol said. “I can’t believe it.”

“Here’s something for you to really not believe,” Stevie said, gesturing in the direction of the third-base dugout. Doyle had just popped out, heading for the mound to at least start the ninth.

“If they blow this lead now, Manny Acta will be crucified,” Svrluga said. “Why wouldn’t he go to Hanrahan here?”

“Because he’s been up and down all year,” Maske said. “The easy move is to bring him in. This takes some guts.”

“One base runner and he’s got to get the guy out of there, right?” Stevie said.

They all agreed. For a moment it looked as if there
might not be a base runner. Varitek, who had started so many key Boston rallies through the years, grounded meekly to shortstop. Jacoby Ellsbury worked the count to 2–2 but then hit an easy fly ball to Dukes in center field. Remarkably, the Red Sox were down to their last out.

“I can’t believe this,” Susan Carol said softly, as if afraid to raise her voice and change Doyle’s luck.

“He’s going to do it,” Stevie said. “I can’t believe it.”

“Shhhhh!” Solomon said. “You’ll jinx him.”

For once, he appeared to know what he was talking about.

Shortstop Julio Lugo sliced a single to right field. Then Youkilis singled to right. The crowd came back to life. Nieves trotted to the mound to talk to Doyle.

“He’s not stalling here,” Svrluga said. “Hanrahan’s got to be ready.”

“I think he’s reminding him that he wants to get this over with
now,”
Maske said. “Pedroia’s very good, but they’ve got Ortiz on deck.”

Reminded or not, Doyle pitched carefully—too carefully—and walked Pedroia to load the bases.

“Uh-oh,” Susan Carol said as Ortiz walked to the plate and Acta jogged to the mound. Hanrahan was ready in the bullpen. This had to be it. The entire infield surrounded Doyle and Acta, ready to give him a hero’s send-off once Acta signaled for Hanrahan.

But the signal never came. Acta gave Doyle a pat on the back and jogged back to the dugout.

“Is he completely crazy?” Svrluga said.

Stevie could think of only one answer: apparently so.

Even at thirty-five, Ortiz was arguably the best clutch hitter in baseball, and he was smacking his hands together as he always did while walking to the plate. Fenway, almost silent after the first two outs, was now so loud there was no point in anyone trying to talk. In the Nats dugout Acta never moved. He had ridden Doyle this far, he would stay with him—do or die—for one more batter.

Ortiz stepped into the left-hand batter’s box. With the bases loaded, the Nationals overshifted as almost every team did against Ortiz: Ryan Zimmerman moved from third to the shortstop’s normal spot; Guzman moved to the first-base side of second; second baseman Belliard moved into shallow right field between first and second; and Aaron Boone, at first base, played deep and fairly close to the line.

Doyle quickly threw a strike on the outside corner. The next two pitches weren’t close, and the count went to 2–1. Amazingly, the place got louder. Ortiz took a huge cut at the next pitch, a slider that appeared to hang a little. But he just missed getting solid wood on it, fouling it into the seats.

Now it was 2–2. Doyle tried to get Ortiz to chase a high fastball, but he held back. The count ran to 3–2. The tension was unbearable. Doyle had to throw a strike or walk in the tying run. Stevie felt as if he couldn’t breathe.

With the bases loaded, Doyle was pitching from the full windup. He rocked, kicked his leg in the air, and threw. Ortiz timed the pitch perfectly. The ball screamed off his bat on a line, headed toward the right-field corner. As soon as
Stevie saw the ball come off the bat, his heart sank. Two runs would score easily by the time Kearns tracked the ball down, and then the series would be over.

But suddenly, seemingly from nowhere, Stevie saw Boone leap into the air, his arm stretching out as far as it could possibly go, lunging at the ball as it was going past him. Somehow, with his entire body parallel to the ground, he got his glove on it—the ball smacked off the top edge of his glove and popped into the air. Lying on the ground, Boone reached as far as he could with his bare hand and caught the ball no more than an inch from the ground.

For a split second nobody moved. Boone was lying on his stomach, holding the ball up for everyone to see, and umpire Tim McClelland was giving the out signal.

“OH MY GOD!” Susan Carol screamed.

They were all on their feet, looking in disbelief while the Nationals raced en masse from their dugout to engulf both Boone and Doyle.

“Aaron Bleepin’ Boone again!” Stevie shouted. “He’ll never get out of this place alive!”

But then an amazing thing happened. As the Nationals celebrated, the Red Sox, instead of just leaving the field, came out of the dugout themselves, led by Francona, to offer congratulations. As they did, the crowd, recovering from the shock of what it had just seen, responded. Slowly a wave of applause began, and after a few moments almost everyone in the ballpark was standing and clapping—for both teams.

Stevie felt chills run down his spine. He looked at
Susan Carol, who was crying. He thought he might cry too. It had never occurred to him in the last week that their story might have a happy ending. But now, remarkably, it did.

Soon after they had fought their way through the crowds to meet Kelleher and Mearns in the interview room, Major League Baseball announced that Norbert Doyle and Aaron Boone had been selected as co-MVPs of the World Series. Both Stevie and Susan Carol were assigned to write about Aaron Boone. “Doyle is everyone’s lede, and Manny Acta leaving him in is the column,” Kelleher said. “The other sidebar writers will get into what this means to Washington. Tamara and I both think you guys should do Boone.”

That agreed, they awaited the arrival of the game’s heroes. Manny Acta went first. Then came Boone, who joked about his “blazing speed on the base paths” and said, “I really do love Boston, it’s a great city, but I guess I’ll never live here.”

Then, finally, came Doyle. He was asked all the questions you might expect about being surprised to still be in the game (yes); whether he thought Ortiz’s ball was a hit (absolutely); and how amazed was he to be sitting there as the World Series co-MVP having never won a regular-season game in the major leagues (flabbergasted).

Finally, someone asked if he thought his story was likely to become a movie pretty soon.

“No,” he said firmly. “It won’t. I pitched two good games at the right time. End of story.”

Stevie and Susan Carol walked into the hallway a few moments later. They hadn’t gone four steps before they found themselves face to face with David and Morra Doyle, who had security people escorting them to see their dad in the interview room.

Stevie felt himself go tense preparing for a confrontation. Instead David walked up with his hand out.

“Dad texted us before the game that we owe you both an apology and thanks,” he said. “He says you did a lot more reporting than any of us knew and decided in the end there was no story to write.” He looked Stevie in the eye. “I’m sorry I acted like such a jerk yesterday.”

“Apology accepted,” Stevie said.

Everyone shook hands, which made Stevie feel like a grown-up. There were no hugs—which Stevie was grateful for. That would have been too awkward. The Doyles went down the hall to wait for their father to finish talking to the media.

Stevie and Susan Carol continued along the hallway, heading for the Nationals clubhouse to ask Boone some follow-up questions before they went upstairs to write.

“Well,” Stevie said. “We did it again, I guess.”

She put an arm around him for a moment. “You did most of it this time,” she said.

“In the end we didn’t do anything,” he said.

“I know,” she said. “But nothing was the right thing to
do. And there’s nothing wrong with just writing a great story about a great World Series, is there?”

“No,” Stevie said. “That is pretty cool, actually. Maybe I’m just a little spoiled.”

“No doubt you are,” she said. “But you did great work this week. I lost it for a while, but you never did.”

“You
did
lose your cool for a little while.” Stevie grinned.

She rolled her eyes. “So what exactly do I have to do to make this up to you?”

“That,” Stevie said, “is a question I will be happy to think about for a while. Let me get back to you on it.”

“I’m sure you will,” she said, her face lighting up with the Smile. “I’m sure you will.”