Confessions of a She-Fan (27 page)

I wake up in a cold sweat
on Sunday. I had a nightmare about tonight's game—that Clemens got shelled and A-Rod went 0-for-4 and Giambi committed seven errors at first—a record that Jon Miller of ESPN said would “stand for all eternity.”

I put on my Yankees clothes for the game. I want to wear them all day, to infuse myself with Yankee-ness.

I run out and buy the
New York Times
so I can see my article in the sports section. Whoever comes up with the illustrations for my pieces is very clever, and the one that accompanies today's piece—an engagement ring with an interlocking N-Y on it—is great.

While I am at the newsstand, I notice a headline about George Steinbrenner. George gave a telephone interview to the
Record
in Hackensack, New Jersey, saying that Joe Torre will no longer be the manager if the Yankees lose to the Indians.

Yikes. His timing could not be worse. What is wrong with this guy? But he has threatened to fire Joe before, and Joe is still here.

The weather today is summery but not quite as warm as yesterday—in the 70s. I take a brisk walk around the Upper East Side and try not to dwell on the
obvious: This may be the last time I am here to watch the Yankees in 2007. I am positive we will win tonight, despite that stupid dream, but I have made contingency arrangements just in case. Charlie at Santa Barbara Travel Bureau has us booked on two different flights: to Cleveland if the Yankees force a game five and to Los Angeles if the Indians prevail. I get chest pains even contemplating the latter.

I come upon another beautiful church, this one right in the neighborhood of the Mamara on East 88th Street. It is the Church of the Holy Trinity, an old Episcopal church with more than a dozen stained glass windows. A sign outside its open doors beckons me: “Enter. Rest. Pray.”

I go in, sit down, and get straight to the point.

“Okay, God. I know there are much more important things on your plate. But here's the situation: It's do-or-die for the Yankees, and they have their backs against the wall, and there will be no tomorrow if they don't win tonight, if you'll pardon all the sports clichés. I am begging you:
Please don't let them get
swept
. See you later at the Stadium. Amen.”

I feel better.

I take on a little swagger and strut down Lexington Avenue, like John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever. “Stayin' Alive” is the perfect soundtrack for how I am feeling. I get high-fives and fist-bumps and “Let's go Yankees!” chants from other fans as I walk. It is a beautiful thing until I pass a Red Sox fan.

“Yankees suck!” he shouts at me.

“No, you suck!” I shout back and keep walking.

Our seats are in the MVP Tier, which is a little closer to the action than where we usually sit. We are in section 9, box 619, row C—just to the first-base side of home plate.

I sit back and soak up the scene. Yankee Stadium is dressed to the nines and has never looked so gorgeous to me. The ALDS logo is stenciled on the green grass. The red, white, and blue buntings drape the railings. The fans are wearing their pinstripes. It is all too much.

“This isn't necessarily good-bye,” Michael insists when he notices my expression.

“I know.” I spot John Sterling in the WCBS booth.

The scoreboard has one lonely score on it: Boston is up 9–0 over the Angels. We are not getting swept like the pathetic Halos.

The Indians are announced and take their places along the third-base line. Bob Sheppard is not at the microphone because of the bronchial infection that sidelined him at the end of the regular season. I refuse to view that as a bad omen, sign, or portent.

The Yankees are announced, and the place goes wild. There are 56,000 people screaming their lungs out for each and every player, with the loudest cheers going for Joe. Everybody has heard by now what George said in the
Record
, and we are showing how much we respect our manager. A-Rod, too, gets a huge ovation. We are thanking him for helping us reach this night, not blaming him for past failures. By the time the last name is called, we are all on our feet.

The color guard marches out. A choir from West Point sings the national anthem while the flag is unfurled. Two Hornet fighter jets zoom over the Stadium. Tino throws out the first pitch. Mattingly and Eric Wedge shake hands at home plate and exchange the lineup cards with the umpires. It is all going too fast. I wish this game, this experience, this trip could last a lifetime.

I talk to the fan next to me. He is a big, tall, red-faced man who tells me he works nights for Con Ed but has called in sick to be here. He is a sweet guy, and I want us to win for his sake as well as my own.

Clemens versus Westbrook.

Over in left field hangs a sign that says “Exterminate Cleveland.” Another one says “Do It for Joe.”

“Let's go Yankees!” we all chant after Clemens throws strike one to Sizemore, who eventually grounds out. Cabrera reaches on Jeter's throwing error, which is soon reversed and called a hit.

“Jeter usually makes that play,” says the Con Ed guy.

“He'll be okay,” I say. It is way too early for concern.

But Hafner walks, moving Cabrera to second. And Garko singles Cabrera home for the first run of the game. And it is a final in Anaheim: Boston has swept the Angels.

In the bottom of the first, Damon singles and we clap until our hands are raw. Jeter hits into a double play and we are quiet.

“Jeter usually drives 'em in,” says the Con Ed guy.

“He'll be okay!”

Abreu grounds out to end the inning.

Nixon homers in the top of the second for 2–0. Clemens is up to 47 pitches.

In the bottom of the second, A-Rod singles.

“His swing is back,” says Michael.

“You bet.” I am the little cheerleader in our group.

Jorge, who is batting behind A-Rod tonight, hits into a double play, and Giambi grounds out. It is very quiet again.

There is medical drama in the top of the third. Clemens, who has not pitched since September 16, is up 0-and-2 on Hafner when Joe and Gene Monahan trot out to the mound. They have a conference, but Clemens stays in the game and goes to 2-and-2 on Hafner.

“Throw a strike, Grandpa!” yells the huge pimply kid behind me.

People are turning on the Rocket. He is not supposed to have blisters or hamstring issues or a fatigued groin. After he walks Hafner and strikes out Martinez, there is another conference on the mound and, to everyone's horror, Clemens comes out of the game. The Con Ed guy calls his wife and asks what they are saying on TV.

“She says it's his left hamstring,” he tells me.

“I can't believe this.”

“Hughes is taking over,” says Michael.

“I thought Joe liked to go with experience,” I say. “Mussina is ready.”

“Maybe Joe's saving him for tomorrow night,” he says.

“There won't be a tomorrow unless we win tonight.” I am descending into negativity. “Let's go, Yankees!”

Hughes throws a wild pitch to Garko, moving Hafner to second. Peralta doubles to right, scoring Hafner. 3–0.

“Bring in Pavano!” the pimply kid yells.

“How about Contreras?” shouts his friend.

“Hire Girardi already!” howls a guy way back in our section.

That one hurts the most.

I stand and clap for my team in rhythmic beats. “Let's go, Yankees!”

It is the bottom of the third. Matsui beats out an infield hit. Cano sacrifices him to second. Melky hits a swinging bunt. They throw to third to try and nail Matsui, but he is called safe in a close play. Damon singles Matsui home. 3–1. Everybody is cheering, urging them on. Jeter hits into another double play.

In the bottom of the fifth, Westbrook gives up a single to Matsui, then a double into the left-field corner by Cano, sending Matsui to third. Melky singles, scoring Hideki. 3–2. Eric Wedge visits the mound, but Westbrook stays in the game—and serves up a three-run homer to Damon. 5–3.

We all go insane, standing and clapping and hugging each other. The Con Ed guy practically crushes me, but no matter. We have taken the lead. Damon comes out for a curtain call, and 56,000 fans that used to hate him as a Red Sock pay homage.

Hughes tosses another scoreless inning in the top of the sixth. He is making a believer out of me. The Yankees pad their lead in the bottom of the frame. A-Rod beats out an infield single with great hustle down the line. The Indians gather on the mound, and Westbrook departs for Fultz. Posada singles A-Rod to second. Mientkiewicz lays down a perfect bunt, sacrificing A-Rod to third and Posada to second. Matsui is intentionally walked, loading the bases with one out for Cano, who singles to right. Nixon overruns the ball, which goes all the way to the wall for an error, scoring A-Rod, Posada, and Matsui. 8–3.

We are all delirious now.

Joba comes in for the top of the seventh. He strikes out Sizemore and Cabrera and gets Hafner to fly out on a pitch clocked at 100 mph.

Lewis is the Indians' pitcher for the bottom of the seventh, and he strikes out Jeter, Abreu, and A-Rod. I shake my head, wondering what is up with Jeter, in particular. particular. The Captain is usually so clutch.

Joe brings Joba back for the top of the eighth,and—bugs or no bugs—Chamberlain has not been quite as effective in his second innings of back-to-back work. True to form, he gives up a single to Martinez, a walk to Peralta, a single to Lofton, and a double in the gap in left-center to Nixon. It is 8–4, and the crowd is hushed.

“Bring in Mo!” yells the pimply kid.

Joba gets Blake to fly out. There is a collective sigh of relief.

The Indians call on Borowski, their closer, for the bottom of the eighth. He walks Posada and Matsui, but the Yankees don't score.

As “Enter Sandman” blares over the speakers and Mo trots in, I watch in disgust as people leave. I apologize to Indians fans for blasting them on this subject, because there are Yankee fans who are no better. Yes, there is construction around the Stadium and yes, there is traffic on the Deegan and yes, it is
Sunday night and people have to work tomorrow. But how many times in your life do you get to watch your team in the play-offs?

Here is what those people miss: Mo retires Sizemore on a fly out and strikes out Cabrera and Hafner. It is a brilliant Mariano Rivera performance.

Thereare plenty of us left, and we stand and salute the Yankees. Melky dances with youthful glee as he high-fives everybody.

We do not get swept. We are not out of this series. We are stayin' alive.

I cannot remember ever being so happy.

The big news on Monday
is that Joe is starting Wang tonight on 3 days' rest—partly because Wang has pitched well at home and partly because the other choice is Mussina. Hopefully, Wang has figured out what went wrong in game one and will be sharp for game four.

I am antsy sitting around waiting for the 7:30 start, so I take a walk. I need to get to that Holy Trinity church on 88th Street and start praying again.

I approach the church only to find that the gates around it are locked. Can they really be closed? Is it because it is Monday? Is it because it is Columbus Day?

Calm down, I tell myself. You are not that superstitious wacko anymore.

I keep walking. After an hour I go back to 88th Street, just in case the nice folks at Holy Trinity overslept and have only now gotten around to unlocking the gates. Nope. I am not gaining entry.

I call Michael at the Marmara.

“Find me a church!”

He looks for the yellow pages but can't find it.

I go back to the hotel. I close the door to the bedroom of room 504, turn off the lights, and kneel down by the bed. I cast my eyes heavenward and try to ignore the ceiling's popcorn insulation that was big in the '70s.

“Dear God. Please excuse the setting. I know the decor isn't exactly on a par with the Basilica in Baltimore. Thank you for pulling the Yankees through last night. I'm sorry to be such a pest, but could you help them win again tonight? It's a lot to ask, I know. The thing is they were beset by injuries early in the season and they played mediocre baseball, except for A-Rod. But then, after the All-Star break, they showed such heart and determination and courage. That's why they're here. That's why I'm here. Because they fought back so hard. They had faith. Maybe you feel that they and I have been rewarded enough and it's time for all of us to go home. If that's the case, I ask only that you protect me from excessive sadness.”

“Are you done in there?” Michael hollers from the other side of the door.

I turn back to God. “Take care and amen.”

I get up and let Michael in. We change into our Yankees clothes and head for the subway.

Our seats are the same as last night's—in the MVP Tier just to the first-base side of home plate. There are a few familiar faces but mostly new ones. Something feels off about this section tonight. Instead of the nice Con Ed guy, the man next to me is some power broker who is constantly on his cell phone.

“My friends and I shared a package of season tickets down on the field during the regular season,” he tells me between phone calls. “But we got stuck up here in the nosebleed section in the postseason lottery. Sucks, huh?”

I hate this guy. There are types like him all around me tonight: people who act as if they are squeezing the game into their busy schedules. I start a “Let's go, Yankees!” chant and nobody except Michael joins in. We are facing elimination. Where is the energy? The electricity? The attitude? Maybe it's the heat. It is 87 degrees—the hottest October 8 on record for New York City. But that is no excuse.

The national anthem is performed by the Military Academy Band of West Point. No Hornet jets tonight. Just a Bob Sheppard–less announcement of the lineups. Reggie Jackson throws out the first pitch, and there is only a tepid reaction from the crowd. What the hell is going on? The good news is that the people over in left field with the “Exterminate Cleveland” sign are here again. They put up another one that says “Going Back to Cleveland.” You bet we are.

“Let's get it started!” the speakers blare as the Yankees take the field.

Wang against Byrd.

Here we go.

Sizemore homers to lead off the top of the first. What the fuck? It is 1–0 just like that. Wang's sinker is not sinking. “Let's go, Yankees!” I cheer, all by myself. Cabrera grounds out. Hafner singles. Martinez hits a nubber that moves Hafner to second. Peralta singles, scoring Hafner. It is 2–0.

Jeter and Abreu hit back-to-back singles in the bottom of the first, but A-Rod strikes out and the crowd groans. They go silent after Posada flies out.

Gutierrez and Blake both single in the top of the second. People boo Wang.

“The kid won 19 games!”I say to the collective group around me.“CUT IT OUT!”

Shoppach gets hit by a pitch. Bases are loaded with nobody out. Joe wastes no time and pulls Wang. It is only the second inning.

“Mussina,” says Michael as Moose comes in.

“Let's go, Yankees!”

Sizemore hits into a double play, scoring Gutierrez and allowing Blake to go to third. 3–0. Blake scores on Cabrera's single. 4–0.

This is not happening.

In the bottom of the second, after Matsui walks, a bolt of lightning flashes across the sky.

“First the bugs. Now this,” says Michael. “What's next? A flood?”

It does start to rain very lightly, and I bury my head under my jacket for a few minutes until it passes.

Cano singles Matsui to second. Mientkiewicz walks, loading the bases for Damon with one out. The crowd wakes up, remembering Johnny's homer from last night. “Let's go, Yankees!” we scream. Damon fouls out, but Jeter singles, scoring Matsui. 4–1. Abreu flies out with bases loaded, but we are on the board.

Moose has an impressive third after a leadoff walk to Peralta. But the Yankees have a lousy third at the plate. A-Rod strikes out looking, and there is a smattering of boos. Posada doubles off the wall in right center. Neither Matsui nor Cano bring him home.

“This is Paul Byrd, not Johan Santana,” I say to Michael.

Shoppach doubles to lead off the top of the fourth. Sizemore tries a bunt that goes foul, then walks. Cabrera bunts both runners over. The Indians are playing small ball against us. They are morphing into the hateful Angels. Hafner is intentionally walked to load the bases with one out. I start a “Let's go, Yankees!” chant. It fizzles quickly. Martinez singles, scoring Shoppach and Sizemore. 6–1.

In the bottom of the fourth, I start crying—spontaneously and without any particular provocation. It is weird. Everyone else is eating and drinking and watching the Dunkin' Donuts Subway Race, but I am despondent. The Yankees are losing, and I want more supportive company. I want us all to bond together and help each other through this shared experience and serve as a psychological buffer against impending defeat. I want us to be a mosh pit of solidarity. Kumbaya. Meanwhile, Melky singles, Mientkiewicz pops out, Damon flies out, and Jeter lines out.

Mussina retires the Indians in order in the top of the fifth. In the bottom of the inning, A-Rod singles, Posada lines to second, and Matsui pops out—and all of them get booed.

In the top of the sixth, Mussina gets two outs and is replaced by Villone, who retires Hafner to end the inning.

Cano homers in the bottom of the sixth. 6–2. That is it for Byrd. Perez is the new pitcher, and he has been killing us. Shelley, batting for Mientkiewicz, singles. Damon singles him to third.

We are coming back. Look out, Tribe.

Everybody is standing and cheering now. With Jeter coming up, this is where we turn things around.

Jeter hits into a double play. We all slump back down into our seats, stunned and deflated—except the cell phone guy next to me, who gets up.

“This crap isn't worth watching. See ya.”

“Don't let the turnstiles hit you on the way out!”

Farnsworth is on the mound for the top of the seventh and is booed before he throws apitch. a pitch. He allows a single to Peralta but gets out of the inning and departs to cheers—New York in a nutshell.

After “God Bless America” comes “Take Me Out to the Ball Game.” Hardly anybody sings along.

Abreu strikes out in the bottom of the seventh. And then A-Rod homers.
Finally. 6–3. Is it too late? Maybe not. Matsui walks, and the crowd gets into it. We are all chanting, “Let's go, Yankees!” It feels more like a plea than a rallying cry. Cano steps in to “Rob-bie! Rob-bie!” but he grounds out, and everybody goes silent again.

Veras is in for the top of the eighth. People are leaving in droves. droves. I resent all these fuckers. . Blake strikes out. Shoppach doubles off the wall in center. Joe comes out to talk to Veras, and the Stadium erupts with chants of “Joe-Torre! Joe-Torre!” It is unbearably sad. We are saying good-bye to our manager of the past 12 years, and he acknowledges us with a slight tip of his cap. He leaves Veras in. Sizemore is intentionally walked. Now Joe comes back out to replace Veras with Mo, who retires the two batters he faces.

Betancourt sets down the Yankees in order in the bottom of the eighth, two of them on strikeouts.

By the top of the ninth, almost everyone in our section has left.

“At least we don't have any heads blocking our view,” Michael says. He has been eying me warily.

Mo is back out there, maybe for the last time if he makes good on his stated intention to test free agency. Well, you can say the same for A-Rod, Abreu, Posada, and so on. Maybe this is the last time we will see any of them in pinstripes.

Martinez singles. So does Peralta.

You can hear every word and whistle now that the crowd is so sparse. Lofton hits into a fielder's choice and goes to second on defensive indifference. Gutierrez strikes out, and Blake hits a long fly to Damon.

Bottom of the ninth. Down by three runs. We have come back from bigger deficits—like that Friday-night game in Boston last month. “Let's go, Yankees!” I chant, and my voice reverberates back at me in the now-cavernous Stadium.

Borowski is pitching. The scoreboard is encouraging people to “make some noise,” but they do not. Jeter pops out. Abreu hits a majestic homer into the upper deck in right field to pull the Yankees to 6–4. What is left of the crowd comes alive as A-Rod steps in. He flies out. We are down to Posada. I want to yell, “Hip hip, Jor-hay!” but my throat has closed up. He strikes out. Game over. Series over. Season over.

I sit in my seat for a very long time. Everybody else is going or has
already gone. The Stadium is creepy when it is empty like this, but I cannot leave. I am doubled over with spasms of crying. I know it is physically impossible to “sob your guts out,” but I am crying so hard that it feels like it. I would say I was creating a spectacle except that there is no one but Michael to see me.

Not only is the season over, with the likelihood of an off-season filled with departures, but so is my trip. but so is my trip. I have spent months watching the Yankees. It is the specter of missing them that is killing me. It is my love for them and now the loss of them that is making me convulse with weeping. I cannot say good-bye.

I never got to say good-bye to my father. Since I was only 6 when he died, my mother wanted to shield me from the harsh reality of his funeral. I was left to wonder why he had disappeared and when he was coming back. Before he got sick, he used to stop on his way home from work once a week and buy me a pint of Breyers vanilla ice cream—the kind with the little dark specks of vanilla beans in it. Where was he? And where was my Breyers? No matter how many afternoons I sat in the window seat near the front door, watching and waiting, he never showed. My mother withdrew into her own grief, rarely leaving the house. I had lost both my parents.

Michael lifts my arm by the elbow. “Let's go. It's time.”

“Not yet!” Poor Michael. He should get combat pay for having to put up with me. “I have to feel this, to watch this.”

I watch Paul O'Neill and Michael Kay doing their final stand-up in front of the YES camera; John Sterling and Suzyn Waldman wrapping up their last WCBS broadcast; the groundskeepers laying a cover over the pitcher's mound.

I bury my head in my hands and sob and sob and sob. I am a mess.

“Are you okay?” asks a woman my age in a Yankees visor.

“This is so embarrassing.”I wave her away. My eyes are swollen into little slits, and I can hardly see out of them.

“I know, I know,” she says, touching my knee with great tenderness.

I gaze at her, study her. She is not an angel. Just another She-Fan.

“There is nothing worse than baseball gone bad,” she murmurs. “Nothing.”

I nod.

She goes off into the night.

Michael cradles me in his arms. “Ready now?”

“Ready.”