Confessions of a She-Fan (26 page)

Thursday is finally here
.
No more resorting to checking the scores and schedules of other teams. No more wondering what the atmosphere at Jacobs Field will be like. Today is the day, and I feel the excitement as soon as I step outside our room.

I run into George King of the
Post
standing by the front desk. He has just checked in.

I see Paul O'Neill talking on his cell phone. He is here for the YES Network.

The carnival has definitely come to town.

I get ready for the 6:30 game early, donning my Mo T-shirt and Yankees visor and leaving my Yankees jacket behind. Since it is unseasonably warm, I expect to be sweating, not shivering.

At the entrance to Jacobs Field, they are handing out tacky white towels so we can wave them around. No thanks. The red, white, and blue bunting draped over the railings looks festive, but there is something phony about this capacity crowd. When I was here in August, the Indians had to beg people to come to the ballpark. Now there are about 45,000 men and women walking around in red T-shirts that say “It's Tribe Time Now!” Where were they when their team was struggling?

Our seats are in section 138, row CC—on the field instead of in the bleachers
this time, on the first-base side. There are a few other Yankee fans in our section, but mostly it is a home crowd and a very loud one. They are in a frenzy as they watch clips from the regular season on the scoreboard.

The ceremonial first pitch is thrown out by the fan who sits in the top row of the bleachers and bangs on his drum. An American flag the size of the entire field is carried out. And after the musicians from the Cleveland Orchestra perform the national anthem, a profusion of red, white, and blue balloons is released into the sky. It is a great spectacle and very patriotic, but I am itching to start the game already.“Let's go, Yankees!” I shout and get filthy looks from all sides. “LET'S GO, YANKEES!”

Wang versus Sabathia. CC is a Cy Young candidate and is hell on left-handed hitters, but we are the Yankees.

Damon leads off with a line drive that lands in the right-field seats. It is called foul. Joe comes out to argue. There is a little TV monitor above our heads, and I can see the replay: Damon's ball was fair. The umpires confer and reverse the call. 1–0 Yankees. Abreu and A-Rod both walk, but they are stranded when Posada and Matsui can't bring them in. At least we have made Sabathia work. He has thrown more than 25 pitches in the inning.

In the bottom of the first, Wang hits Sizemore in the foot. Not a great start. Cabrera hits into a double play, but Hafner walks. Martinez singles. Garko singles, scoring Hafner. Peralta walks, loading the bases for Kenny Fucking Lofton, who singles, scoring Martinez and Garko. It is 3–1 and Wang has no clue. “Let's go Yankees!” I chant, louder and with more urgency. I am drowned out by the Indians fans. They are not just loud; they are crazed. They are on their feet for every single pitch, and the decibel level is off the scale.

In the top of the third, CC is at 50 pitches. He is walking batters. The Yankees are forcing him to throw strikes. But they can't seem to take advantage of his wildness.

In the bottom of the third, Cabrera homers for 4–1. It is still early. The Yankees will come back. They have before, and they will again.

Cano homers in the top of the fourth for 4–2.

Shelley bats for Mientkiewicz in the top of the fifth. He singles. Damon walks. Wedge comes out to talk to Sabathia, who is at 94 pitches. CC stays in the game. Abreu lines a double, scoring Shelley. 4–3. A-Rod is intentionally walked, loading the bases for Posada with one out. Okay, Jorge. Now would be
a really good time to crush one into the gap or put one in the seats. Jorge works the count to 3-and-0. “Hip, hip, Jor-hay!” I scream. Inexplicably he swings—what the fuck?—and misses. And ends up striking out. Matsui pops up, but it is Posada's at bat that has knocked the wind out of me.

Martinez homers in the bottom of the fifth with Cabrera on base for 6–3. Peralta doubles over Cano's head, and Lofton steps in to chants of “Ken-ny! Ken-ny!” He was a surly bastard when he played for the Yankees, but they love him here in Cleveland. He singles, scoring Peralta for 7–3. As chants of “Yankees suck” rain down on Wang, Joe comes to take him out. I heard that his family flew in from Taiwan for this game. They should have stayed home. Joe signals for Ross Ohlendorf, who has never pitched in this sort of pressure-cooker atmosphere. Gutierrez walks and Blake doubles to left, scoring Lofton and Gutierrez. 9–3.

The Indians have a new pitcher in the top of the sixth, and I should be relieved to be rid of Sabathia. But Perez is tough, too. He retires the side in order, with two strikeouts. The stadium speakers blare that idiotic song “Hang On Sloopy” with everybody shouting “O-H-I-O.” It is worse than “Sweet Caroline.”

Hafner homers in the bottom of the sixth off Ohlendorf, who then gives up a double to Martinez, hits Garko with a pitch, and gives up another double to Lofton, scoring Martinez. It is 11–3 when Joe finally comes out to get the kid, traumatizing him for life. Veras gets Gutierrez to pop up to end the inning.

Damon, Jeter, and Abreu go down in order in the top of the seventh, and Reggie Jackson, who is down in front in our section, has seen enough. He storms past my aisle seat, and I am tempted to go with him. Instead I yell, “Let's go Yankees!”

Hughes is pitching the bottom of the seventh, which I don't understand at all. He should be resting up in case he has to fill in for Clemens or Mussina. What is he doing in a blowout?

He comes back for the eighth and gives up a homer to Garko. 12–3.

We are in the top of the ninth with Betancourt on the mound. I am amazed by how many Indians fans are leaving the ballpark. If this were a play-off game in the Bronx, would there be a chance in hell I would leave? It is not raining here. There is no snowstorm. How bad could the traffic be? Giambi, batting for Shelley, singles, but Damon lines out to end this disaster.

We get booed as we make our way out of the stadium in our Yankees clothes.
I ignore it all until a fat guy with a Mohawk and a face covered in red paint plants himself in my path and yells, “Yankees suck!”

“I hope thet paint gives you lead poisoning!”

Back at the hotel I tell Michael it was just one game. “We'll win tomorrow night.”

He leans over to kiss me. “Happy Anniversary.”

I am exhausted
when I wake up on Friday. I hardly slept at all, but I did have a wonderful dream: Bud Selig ruled that the Cleveland Indians were being disqualified from the play-offs because of some financial wrongdoing by their front office, and the Yankees were the winners of the series by default. Talk about wishful thinking.

The weather is still unseasonably warm—in the high 80s—and muggier than yesterday, as if summer really has returned. I take a walk to my favorite church. I reassure God that it is okay that the Yankees lost last night. In case he is too busy to familiarize himself with the logistics of the ALDS, I explain to him that it is not essential that we sweep the Indians, only that we beat them eventually. And I ask for forgiveness for telling the fan with the painted face that I hoped he would die.

Tonight's game has a 5:00 start, and it is still hot and sticky as we walk to Jacobs Field. We pass a few Yankee fans along the route, and I fist-bump each one. We need to stick together in this time of crisis.

Our seats are the same as last night's—section 138, row CC. As I am walking up the aisle to buy bottled water, I run into Charles Wenzelberg, the photographer from the
Post
.

“Where are you sitting, so I can bring you the cork?” he asks.

The cork. He really did save it for me.

I point to our seats, and he says he will be back. Sure enough, he reappears
a few minutes later with my souvenir from the champagne party. I give him a hug and thank him.

After Charles goes to work, I show the cork to Michael, handling it as if it is a rare and extremely expensive gemstone.

“Where are you planning on keeping it?” he asks. “With the rest of your Yankees stuff?”

“With my jewelry,” I say.

The Jake is as loud as it was last night—maybe louder. The scoreboard is revving everybody up with clips of the players shoving pies in each other's faces (pies are known here as rally pies). What's more, the fans are incessantly waving those white dish rags that were distributed at the entrance. I can't imagine how the Yankees are supposed to concentrate in this sort of environment.

Pettitte against Fausto Carmona.

Queen Latifah throws out the ceremonial first pitch. She must be a Yankee fan, because she gives Jeter a hug as she walks off the field. A classical pianist plays the national anthem.

“Let's go Yankees!” I shout as Damon steps in to lead off the top of the first. I am really jumpy.

Damon flies out. Jeter strikes out. Abreu grounds out. I doubt Carmona even broke a sweat.

Pettitte is almost as good in his half. Sizemore singles, but Cabrera hits into a double play, and Hafner strikes out looking.

In the top of the second, A-Rod pops out on the first pitch. After Matsui walks, Posada grounds into a double play.

In the bottom of the frame, Pettitte walks Peralta, who steals second. Lofton singles, but Melky makes an incredible throw home to nail Peralta and end the threat.

“Maybe that'll give us some momentum,” I say right before Melky homers to put the Yankees up 1–0.

Both pitchers are brilliant through six innings, and the tension mounts. mounts. This is the kind of game Michael loves—a tight contest where the outcome is unpredictable. I would love it more if the Yankees were ahead by 107–0.

In the bottom of the seventh, with the Yankees clinging to their one-run lead, Pettitte gets into a jam. Peralta doubles. Lofton walks on four pitches. Out comes Joe, who calls for Joba. The crowd chants “Jo-ba! Jo-ba!” in a mocking, singsong way that makes me so mad I want to decapitate the Indians fan
in front of me. The next indignity is the scoreboard display, which shows a “New York sucks” sign. A “Cleveland sucks” sign would not be permitted at Yankee Stadium, much less projected onto the scoreboard with children watching. Now they are showing a picture of Senator Hillary Clinton (D–NY) with her face X-ed out. They also string up a dummy by its neck and dunk it in a vat of whipped cream for the ultimate rally pie. Meanwhile, Joba retires Gutierrez and Blake.

The Yankees go down in order in the top of the eighth. Where is the offense? How did we score 968 runs? I know we face the toughest pitchers at this time of year, but are they really that tough? I am such a nervous wreck that I am literally wiping the flop sweat off my face.

Joba comes back out for the bottom of the eighth. I try to think positively, to have
faith
. I envision that he will keep the Indians in check and turn the ball over to Mo in the ninth, and the Yankees will tie up the series on Pettitte's gutsy performance. There is nothing wrong with a 1–0 game as long as the Yankees win it.

Michael points at the infield. “What the hell … ?”

I look closer. Joba is swatting bugs off his face, off his neck, off his arms. I look closer still. Jeter is waving away the insects, too. So are Mientkiewicz, Cano, and A-Rod.

“This is bizarre,” I say. “We don't have any bugs here in the stands. Do you think they're attracted to the lights?”

The Indians fan in front of me turns around and smirks, “They're attracted by Jeter's cologne.”

I do not even bother with him. Gene Monahan hurries out of the dugout with a can of bug spray and gives Joba a thorough going-over. The others borrow it and spray themselves, too. But it becomes clear very quickly that the spray is useless. Billions of insects are swarming the players.

The Indians fan turns around again. “They're called midges,” he says of the insects. “Lake Erie midges. They come out on warm fall nights.”

“How do you get rid of them?”

“You don't.” He laughs. “And bug spray only attracts 'em.”

I need to tell the Yankees this. Lake Erie midges were obviously not in their scouting report. I need to jump over the railing and run onto the field and shout, “
Stop the madness!
”

And yet the madness does not stop. The bugs are attacking Joba, dive-bombing him, sticking to his skin. How is he supposed to pitch? They are attaching themselves to his eyeballs. I glance up at the TV monitor, and it looks as if a biblical pestilence has descended on Jacobs Field.

“Where the fuck is Joe? Why isn't he out there talking to the umpires about delaying the game?”

Michael shakes his head. It is a mystery to him, too. “Even if they refuse to delay it, the discussion itself would delay it—maybe just long enough for the bugs to let up a little.”

But Joe remains in the dugout, even as his pitcher is asking for more repellant; even as his pitcher walks Sizemore, the first batter of the inning, on four pitches; even as his pitcher hurls a wild pitch past Cabrera, sending Sizemore to second; even as his pitcher allows Cabrera to sacrifice Sizemore to third; even as his pitcher throws a second wild pitch, past Martinez, sending Sizemore home with the tying run; even as his pitcher hits Martinez with a pitch and walks Garko. Now he comes out? And he leaves Joba in there? Does he not want to win this game?

I am trying to stay calm, but the Indians fans are going wild now that they have evened the score and reduced Joba to a head case. The inning ends with a strikeout of Puerperal, but the damage is done.

The bugs are still out there when the Indians take the field for the top of the ninth, but there are fewer out there. I am sure there are people who will say that is bullshit, that I am a typical whining Yankee fan, that the bugs were equally disruptive to both teams. That is not true. Never mind what you saw on television.

It was worse for the Yankees. I was there.

Having said that, there is still a game to be played, and the Yankees have Carmona at 96 pitches. He should be vulnerable. Damon grounds out. Jeter strikes out. Abreu beats out an infield single, and there is hope. But A-Rod works the count full and then strikes out. He is having another abysmal postseason so far, but he is far from the only one. Jeter and Posada have been AWOL.

Here is Mo for the bottom of the ninth. Instead of appearing in a save situation, he is trying to preserve the tie score. He retires Lofton, Gutierrez, and Blake in order.

Perez relieves Carmona in the top of the 10th and makes the Yankees look feeble, just like he did last night.

Mo is back for the bottom of the 10th. The Jake is pure bedlam, with fans on their feet screaming with every pitch. Mo loads the bases and gives me a heart attack, but he escapes with nobody scoring.

In the top of the 11th, Perez gets three up, three down.

I grab Michael's hand for the bottom of the 11th. Vizcaino is on the mound, and Shelley has taken over at first. Viz walks Lofton on four pitches. He gives up a single to Gutierrez. Blake hits a swinging bunt, and the runners move up. Sardinha replaces Damon in left field in the middle of the inning—huh?—and Sizemore is intentionally walked to load the bases with one out. Cabrera pops out. Hafner steps in. He is a big, corn-fed North Dakotan who looks like he wants to rip the shit out of every pitch. He works the count to 3-and-2. A root canal would be more fun than this. As Jorge goes out to talk to Viz, I take off my Yankees visor, clutch it to my heart, and close my eyes. I visualize the following: The Yankees escape danger in this inning, score 20 runs in the next one, retire the Indians in order in their half, and pile on top of each other in celebration of their dramatic victory.

My visualizing doesn't work. Hafner singles home Lofton for the 2–1 win. I sit there stunned.

Eventually, we get up to avoid all the celebrating and are taunted by Indians fans as we make our way to the exit.

“Yankees suck!” yells a tub of guts in a Lofton jersey.

“SHUT YOUR FUCKING RALLY PIE HOLE!” I yell back.

In the peace and quiet of our parlor suite, Michael watches the Red Sox beat the Angels in the bottom of the ninth on Manny's homer.

I don't watch. I pack. Tomorrow we are flying back to New York, where we will turn things around. Let's go, Yankees.

Saturday is our travel day. We check out of the Renaissance and head to the airport for our 12:30 flight to Newark. There are other Yankee fans at the gate. We are all subdued but united in our determination to get back in this series and win it.

As I board the plane and pass through first class, I recognize Dusty Baker.

“That was Dusty Baker,” I whisper to Michael as we are inching toward the rear of the plane. “He must be covering the series for ESPN.” I love that I am still seeing members of the traveling carnival. I wonder how I will survive when I am home in Santa Barbara and don't run into baseball people every day. Not that there is a shortage of celebrities in town, but they are all boring movie stars.

During the flight I replay last night's game in my head. God knows New York has billions of cockroaches, and our cockroaches could destroy their stupid midges any day.

We land at Newark about 2:30. Dusty Baker is standing at the baggage-claim carousel with his ESPN colleague Jon Miller, whom I have always admired. I remember how intimidated I was by Michael Kay and Al Leiter at the baggage claim in Toronto nearly 3 months ago. This time I walk right over to Jon and Dusty, introduce myself, and say I am writing a book about being a Yankee fan.

We discuss the hottest topic in America: Lake Erie midges.

“Curtis Granderson, the Tigers centerfielder, was in the booth with us last night,” Jon says. “He told us the bugs are called Canadian soldiers in Detroit. He also told us that bug spray makes the situation worse because it causes the bugs to stick to the skin. The Indians' trainer knew that, but the Yankees' trainer didn't.”

“Joe should have tried to stop the game,” I say.

“The umpires would never have allowed a delay,” says Dusty, who goes looking for his bags.

“Tell me more about your book,” Jon asks me.

“It all started in May with a piece in the
New York Times
about divorcing the Yankees.”

“Oh, the divorce article!” He laughs. “I remember it. It was great!”

“Thanks so much.” Jon Miller is a Hall of Fame broadcaster. I am very flattered.

After a long cab ride into Manhattan, we check into the good old Marmara, only to learn that there is even more construction going on.

“Is there a quiet room?” I say to the woman at the front desk.

“I give you number five-oh-four,” she says in her vague foreign accent. “It's all I have left. We're sold out.”

Number 504 has to be the smallest, noisiest unit in the building, but we are happy to be back.