Confessions of a She-Fan (23 page)

Ortiz steps in. Before Mo throws a single pitch, Joe walks out to talk to him. No, he is not pulling his closer; he is settling him down and probably settling himself down while he is at it.

But Mo doesn't settle down. He goes to a full count on Ortiz, who fouls off pitch after pitch after pitch. This at bat is killing me.

Come on, Mo. You have faced this guy a million times. You know how to get him
out. You can do this. The Yankees can do this. We can do this
.

I take my hands away from my eyes. I could care less that Jason Zillo has refused me press credentials, that Derek Jeter will never know my name, that the relationship between fan and team is not reciprocal. I just want to watch my boys and cheer for them.

“Let's go, Yankees!” I scream at the top of my lungs. I throw off the hood of my jacket and unzip it, revealing my navy blue Yankee sweatshirt underneath. I turn directly to the TV camera and point to the interlocking N-Y on my chest: “LET'S GO YANKEEEEES!!!!!”

Susan is stunned, as are all the corporate titans in our VIP section. Michael bursts out laughing.

Ortiz hits a high pop-up to short left-center. Jeter backpedals. Back, back,
back he goes. He makes the catch and pumps his fist. The second that ball is in his glove I leap into the air with unbridled joy, just like I did in my fuzzy NyQuil-induced dream. I hug Susan, my friend,the Red Sox fan. The other Sox fans in our section are shooting me daggers, but she is happy for me. She knows true love never dies.

I wake up on Monday without a voice.
My cheering last night gave me a mean case of laryngitis. Michael, who is so congested that his chest rattles, says I sound sexy.

Our flight into Newark leaves at 9:30 a.m., but we don't have it in us to rush for it. We avoid the airport hassles and rent a car to New York. It is a crystal-clear sunny day, and the 3-hour drive is peaceful. I am happy, radiant. There is one tiny problem. My publisher will probably dump the book when they find out I haven't interviewed a single Yankee. But it is okay. Time to let all that go.

We check back into the Marmara. This will be our last stay here unless the Yankees make it into the play-offs. Never mind their dismal first half of the season. Never mind their spotty pitching. Never mind that Matsui's knee is bad or that Giambi's body has broken down or that Joba has not been battle tested. There are positives: A-Rod's homers, Posada's career year, Jeter's consistency, Cano's patience at the plate, Abreu's hot streak, Melky's arm, Damon's play in left, Shelley's power off the bench, and, of course, Mientkiewicz's defense at first. The situation is not perfect, but I like our chances.

By midafternoon, Michael and I are both exhausted. There is no way we can go to tonight's game—the first of three against Baltimore. We watch it on TV, hoping a good night's sleep will fix us up.

Hughes is facing Daniel Cabrera. And Mientkiewicz is starting at first base for the second game in a row.

Hughes allows two runs in the top of the first, but Mientkiewicz smacks a bases-loaded single that scores Posada and Giambi in the bottom of the second.

“That bottle of Miller Lite was definitely a magic beer,” I say to Michael.

“You should e-mail Jason Zillo to set up the interview.”

“It's okay. I'm just glad he's playing well.”

The Yankees pad their lead, and Hughes shuts down the O's. In the top of the ninth, we are ahead 8–3 and Joe calls for Farnsworth. Kyle issues a walk, uncorks a wild pitch, and gives up a couple of singles. Joe comes back out to remove him for Mo, who is probably sick of being his own setup man. With the score at 8–5, he strikes out Mora to end the game. He notches his 29th save, and the Yankees move to within 3½ games of Boston, who lost to Toronto thanks to three home runs by the Big Hurt.

Michael and I both feel better on Tuesday. He is not rattling and I am not rasping, and we are ready for baseball.

At 6 o'clock we take the subway to the Bronx for tonight's game against Baltimore. We arrive at the Stadium just in time for the lineups, only it is not Bob Sheppard who is announcing them. It is not until after the game that I hear he is out with laryngitis. I hope he is okay. Meanwhile, whoever is pinch-hitting for him does an amazing job of imitating his cadences.

Mientkiewicz is starting at first—again. Mussina is on the mound, trying to win his 10th game of the season.

Our seats are better than usual—one level down from our regular haunt in the Tier in section 628, row F, between home plate and third base.

“It's great to be back,” I tell Michael as we watch the Yankees take their final warm-up tosses. “What a difference a month makes.”

“You hated it in the beginning.”

“And now I don't—not the security guards or the pushy, obnoxious people or even these hard, uncomfortable seats.”

“You fit right in.” Michael appraises me. I have traded in the red jacket for a
Yankees jacket, the one Joe Torre wears on chilly nights like this. It is a relief that I am free to love my team in plain view of others, after having to hide my true feelings in Boston. I am in the Yankees' house now, my house. For so long I have wondered where “home” is. Tonight I know.

Mussina throws a shutout through seven. He walks off the mound to “Moooose” calls and a standing ovation. I am happy for him. His season mirrors the Yankees' season—lots of ups and downs. Like the team, he has fought his way back.

The Yankees turn the game into a laugher in the bottom of the seventh, pounding out hit after hit, including a single by Mientkiewicz. The guy has four RBIs on the night, including a homer!

As the Yanks wrap up their 12–0 victory, the scoreboard lets us know that Boston has lost to Toronto again. Gagne gave it up, and now the Yankees trail the Red Sox by a mere 2½ games.

It is Wednesday, and I am having lunch with Larry's friend Jen Royle at the Time Warner Center. I snag a table at the busy Landmarc restaurant, and Jen comes along soon after. She is as perky as I expected from watching her videos on the YES Web site. She is 33, has long, wavy brown hair falling around her face, and wears a little white tank top of the type I have not worn since I was her age.

“You grew up in Boston,” I say. “How did you end up covering the enemy?”

She laughs. “It wasn't something I ever thought would happen. My father took me to Red Sox games with my two brothers and my grandfather. I hated the Yankees.
Hated them!
Even when they got into the World Series after 9/11, I didn't say, ‘Come on, Yankees. Do it for the city!' I was taught to hate them. I was that asshole who wore my ‘Yankees Suck' T-shirt to Fenway Park.”

“Sounds like you're not a Yankee hater anymore. When did that change for you?”

“A few months after I got the job with YES. I started to care about people in that clubhouse. I remember having a couple of conversations with Jorge about his son being sick. I remember talking to Sheffield about his uncle, Doc Gooden, being a drug addict. Somebody once told me, ‘Hey, Jen. Snap out of it. They're not your friends.' Maybe they're not my friends, but they're people. They're not a uniform or a number.”

“You mentioned on the phone that the Yankees helped your father when he was sick.”

She inhales deeply and her eyes well up. “In December of '05, my mother called to say my father had stage four lung cancer that had metastasized.”

“How did the Yankees figure into this?”

“There was a 3-week wait to get my father into Mass General or Dana-Farber. I called Larry and asked what I should do. He said, ‘Call Terry Francona. Call Theo Epstein. Call Brian Cashman. Get yourself a good doctor for him.' I said, ‘Brian Cashman?' And then I remembered that Dr. Hershon, the team doctor, went to Harvard Medical School. ‘Call Cash,' Larry said. I called Cash, who called Dr. Hershon, who got my father into Mass General in a matter of days.”

The tears are running down her cheeks.

“The Yankees were amazing,” she continues. “During this whole experience, Mo was teaching me about death; that if it's God's plan it will happen. One day after my dad was out of the hospital, he said, ‘Why don't you bring your parents to Fenway Park when we're there in May.' I brought them to Fenway. The game was rained out, but I got my parents field passes. I went into the locker room, and Mo was sitting on the couch watching TV. I said, ‘Mo, they're here.' He shuffled into his flip-flops and came outside. He saw my parents and greeted them by their first names. He gave my mother a hug and a kiss, and then he said he wanted to talk to my dad alone. Right before they went off together, he looked at my parents and said, ‘I want you to know that we love your daughter. You did such a good job of growing her up.'”

The Yankees are not the Mafia. I am almost moved to tears myself at this point. It is impossible not to be moved by acts of kindness,especially acts of kindness from people you have been led to believe are cold and unfeeling.

“Mo took my father aside, and they had a discussion about something,” Jen recalls. “I never asked what they talked about. The next time I went home, my father gave me a letter in a manila envelope. He said, ‘Don't open it until you get on the train.' I read it on the train back to New York. It said, ‘Dear Jen, I don't think you'll ever know how proud you make me. Thank you for being my daughter. Please be careful.'”

Jen breaks down.

“At the bottom of the letter it said, ‘P.S. Please give the enclosed letter to Mr. Rivera.' Inside the envelope was a separate letter to Mo. I don't know what it said, but I gave it to Mo, who told me everything would be okay. I said, ‘What do you mean? My father's dying.' Mo said, ‘Yes, but he's okay with it and God's okay with it. Everything's going to be fine.'”

I am quiet, silenced by Jen's apparent reverence for the team she was raised to despise.

“Did you hear from the Yankees after your father died?” I ask.

“Individual players sent flowers, but there was a humungous bouquet of red roses with a card that said ‘New York Yankees.'”

Our seats for the finale of this last home stand against the Orioles are in section 631, row E tonight—in the level just below the upper Tier and above first base. Pettitte is going for his 200th career win against the Orioles' Brian Burres. Earlier in the day Detroit was swept by Cleveland, so the Yankees have a chance to go up by 5½ games in the wild card race.

Matsui's solo shot, his 25th of the season, puts the Yankees on the board in the bottom of the second. They score another run in the fifth, thanks to a single by Mientkiewicz. The guy is on fire!

The Orioles get a run back in the top of the sixth for 2–1, but that is the only scoring they will do off Pettitte, who is really sharp tonight. He leaves in the eighth and gets a big hand. Joba strikes out Mora to end the inning, getting an even bigger hand.

I stand when Mo trots in from the bullpen to “Enter Sandman.” I think about his kindness toward Jen and her parents, and I love him even more. He is not lights out, however. His location is off, and you can feel the anxiety in the stands. Will he bear down and get this game over with?

Have a little faith
, I tell myself. It occurs to me that having faith in a baseball team and having faith in God both require believing in something we can't always understand. What are the words “Maybe next year” if not an expression of faith?

Just then, the scoreboard reports that the Red Sox have been swept by Toronto—Pap Smear gave up a grand slam to Russ Adams!—and if the Yankees hold on, they will have pulled to within 1½ games of Boston!

Okay, Mo. Let's get this done
.

He doesn't hear me. He walks Hernandez, loading the bases. It is not his
night, and yet everyone is cheering him on. I am blowing out my vocal cords. “Let's go, Mo!”

He strikes out Moore, gets his 30th save, and preserves Pettitte's 200th win.

Thursday is an off day, and it is a good thing for the Red Sox. The Boston media are using words like
collapse
to describe the sweep at the hands of the Jays. The team has shut down Okajima for several days with a tired arm, and they have no idea when Manny will return to the lineup.

Today is lunch with Ellen, my literary agent. I not only trust her in all professional matters but also value our close friendship.

We meet at a restaurant called A Voce near the Trident Media Group offices on East 26th Street. She is petite, almost fragile looking, but she is fearsome on behalf of her authors.

“I've started to read the sports section,” she says proudly. “I know who Alex Rodriguez is now. Have you met him?”

“Not yet.”

At 6:30 I hop into a cab for tonight's activity: dinner with Leigh Haber, my editor, at Cafe Luxembourg on 70th and Amsterdam. We crossed paths years ago when we were both book publicists, and now I am one of her authors. Publishing, like baseball, is a small world.

Leigh tells me she is a Yankee fan even though she grew up in Connecticut with a Red Sox–worshipping father. “You picked a great season to write about,” she says.

I regale her with stories about the cities I have been to and the fans I have encountered and the games I have watched.

“Now tell me all the juicy, insider stuff.” She leans in closer. “Which players have you met? A-Rod?”

“No.”

“Jeter?”

“Well, no.”

“Posada?”

“Uh-uh.”

“Who
have
you talked to?”

“Doug Mientkiewicz.”

“Who?”