Confessions of a She-Fan (28 page)

“Hello?” I say to the kitchenon Tuesday night. It is as if I am invading the space of a perfect stranger. Do I really live here? It is so quiet in this house.

“It's 1 o'clock in the morning,” says Michael, as he wheels in the last of our suitcases. “Let's just go to bed.”

“I need to unpack first.” We have been on the go since early this morning. I am beyond exhausted, and my face is puffy from all the crying. Mo told the media after last night's game that we have to accept loss, just like he told Jen Royle she had to accept it, but I am still grieving.

“You can unpack tomorrow,” Michael urges.

I shake my head. “You go on to bed.”

Maybe when the clothes are in the hamper and the bags are put away, I will be able to let go. Or at least start to.

I wake up on Wednesday thinking I am at the Marmara and crash into a wall on my way to the bathroom. I am suffering from Hotel Disorientation Syndrome again, only in my own house.

Out of habit, I rush to the computer to read recaps of last night's game. There is no last night's game.

Still, there is plenty of activity in Yankeeville. The beat writers are speculating about Joe's future. Will he sign a new contract? Or will he be replaced by
Mattingly? Girardi? Tony La Russa? Bobby Valentine? Rumors are also rampant about A-Rod. Will he stay in New York or opt out? And if he opts out, will he sign with the Angels?Cubs? Dodgers?I don't want anybody going anywhere.

I start crying again after I check e-mail. There is one from a person called Tribe Fan who says, “Ha ha. You obnoxious Yankee fans got what you deserved.”

Most of the day is about reentry. I do laundry and grocery shopping. I relearn the TV channel lineup. I call friends and make dates for dinner. I would rather talk about the Yankees than about which local restaurant changed chefs while I was away,but I am making the effort. It is not as if I have been sent back to some hellhole, after all. I live in paradise. I need to remind myself of that.

There is some news regarding the Torre Watch on Thursday. The Yankees “brain trust” will meet in Tampa next week to discuss whether to keep him or dump him. The Boss's sons, Hank and Hal, appear to be running the show, but it is hard to tell. Some of the writers are reporting that Joe may be invited to the Tampa meetings. Others say Mattingly is the front-runner to replace Joe. I hardly notice that the Rockies beat the Diamondbacks in game one of their series.

I go on Amazon and order the DVD collection of
Sex and the City: Season Two
so I can seethe episode where Carrie datesa Yankee after moping around wishing she could get over Mr. Big.

I am moping around wishing I could get over baseball. I will tell you how much I miss it. When I sit down tonight to watch
Grey's Anatomy,
I cheer,“Let's go, Yankees!”

My goal on Friday is to perk up. I go to the Bellezza Vita salon in Summerland to see Bruce, who does my color. After I sit down in his chair and he drapes a smock over me, he says, “Are you sick of baseball after going to all those games?”

I explain that I could never be sick of going to games any more than a lover of music could be sick of going to concerts.

“What about divorcing the Yankees?” he asks. “Is that still on?”

“I'm thinking of moving back to New York so I can be closer to them.”

He laughs. I am just another eccentric client.

At home I turn on the TV. The Rockies have beaten the Diamondbacks again, and the Red Sox have destroyed Sabathia and the Indians in game one of their series. I feel a pang of regret, but it is only a pang.

In Saturday's papers, Joe is getting an outpouring of support—players, other managers, fans, celebrities. But it is looking like the Steinbrenner boys are ready for a change. Otherwise, why not just offer him a new contract already?

Tonight Michael and I watch game two of Red Sox–Indians. It is mildly diverting. I am not invested in either team's success; I hate them both equally.

The score is 6–6 when we switch over to the movie we rented. When it is over, we switch back. Boston loses in the 11 th inning after Gagne gives up an RBI single to Trot Nixon. I hate the Red Sox more.

I think I am getting on with my life, but I wake up crying on Sunday. I dreamed I was trying to swipe my MetroCard into the little slot at the 86th Street subway station and the turnstile wouldn't budge. I was being kept out, just like the Yankees were keeping me out during the trip. I actually hear myself saying, “Please let me in!”

“Let you in where?” Michael asks as he nudges me awake.

I explain about the dream. He shakes his head and goes to eat Rice Krispies.

This afternoon I grab my iPod and take a 5-mile walk along the beach, hoping the salt air will snap me out of my funk. I gaze at the ocean to my left and at the mountains to my right. I am lucky to be living in one of the most magnificent spots in the country. I am lucky to be supporting myself as a writer. I am lucky to be sharing this journey with a husband who loves me. It really is time to cut the crap and get on with things.

On Monday I drive to Los Angeles
for a meeting about a movie project. project. During the ride back, I listen to game three of Red Sox–Indians on the radio. The Indians win 4–2.

Colorado clinches the NL pennant by sweeping the Diamondbacks. Are the Rockies really that good, or is the National League just incredibly lame?

On Tuesday I print out all my notes from the trip and start to figure out what structure and shape the book will take. I am having a productive work session when my cell phone rings.

“Hello?”

“Is this Jane?” asks a male voice.

“Yes.”

“Doug Mientkiewicz.”

I do not scream into the phone like those people who win the grand prize from Publishers Clearing House. I do not even utter a tiny gasp. I just smile. God—and Gene Orza—came through after all.

“Do you remember the magic beer at the Ritz in Boston?” I ask Doug. “You started playing regularly after that night.”

He laughs. “I was thinking I should get you tickets for every game because you were my lucky charm.”

Tickets for every game
. Timing is everything in life.

“Would you be willing to give me some time for my book?”

“I'm pretty open, sure. I'm just home trying to recover from the season.”

“Me, too.”

He gives me his phone number,and we make a plan for me to call him tomorrow morning at 8:00.

I go running into Michael's office.

“My prayer was answered!”

“Which prayer are we talking about?” His head is buried in a box full of photographs.

“Doug Mientkiewicz just called!”

He looks up. “Really?”

“We're doing the interview tomorrow!”

He gets up and gives me a hug. “You got your Yankee.”

Later, we watch the Indians beat the Red Sox 7–3 to go up three games to one. We wave white paper towels and yell, “It's Tribe Time now!”

I call Mientkiewicz at 8:00 on Wednesday morning and get his voice mail. Did he forget me? I leave a message reminding him about our interview and give him my phone number.

I eat breakfast and read the newspapers. There is a rumor that Joe will be given a 1-year deal so he canpass the torch to Mattingly when the new stadium opens in 2009. There is another rumor that he will be asked to take a pay cut. There is a third that he will be kicked upstairs and offered a position in the front office. I am contemplating all this when the phone rings.

I leap off the kitchen stool and race into my office.

“Hello?”

It is not my Yankee. It is my plumber. He says he has the part for the bathroom faucet.

On my way back into the kitchen the phone rings again. This time it is Doug.

We end up talking for hours and on more than one occasion about everything from the values instilled in him by his father and his friendship with A-Rod to his years with the Twins, Red Sox, Mets, and Royals before joining the Yankees. John Sterling was right about him: He is smart and charming. He is also honest and straightforward and passionate. A-Rod may be the fantasy league Yankee, but his high school buddy is the real deal. I had promised my publisher I could reel in a big league ballplayer, and that is exactly what Doug Mientkiewicz is.

On Thursday there is breaking news out of Tampa. The Yankees offered Joe a 1-year contract for $5 million, with million-dollar incentives if the team makes the ALDS, the ALCS, and the World Series. Joe flew down to Florida with Cashman this morning to discuss the offer with the brain trust—and turned it down. He is out. After 12 postseasons in 12 years, he is no longer the Yankees manager. I am freaking, even though I knew this day would come, even though I have been a naysayer now and then, even though I have allowed the words “Maybe it's time for a change” to pass my lips. Joe has been a rock, a father figure, a winner. Who will replace him? And how will his departure affect the signings of Mo, Jorge, A-Rod, and Pettitte?

Jason Zillo organizes a conference call so that the Yankees can explain the situation to the beat writers. Peter Abraham posts the audio on his blog, and I am glued. Randy Levine does most of the talking, going through the details of the offer Joe left on the table. And then he, Cashman, and the Steinbrenner boys
answer questions from Peter, Mark, Tyler, Sweeny, George, Kat, and the rest of the traveling carnival.

There is an e-mail from Tom Jolly at the
Times
. Apparently, the sports section has been inundated with reactions to Joe leaving. They are planning to run a full page of reflections about him, and Tom asks if I would like to contribute. I write a short piece about how bad I am at good-byes and how much I will miss Torre.

Michael and I watch Red Sox–Indians. Beckett pitches a gem, damn him, and the Sox win decisively.

“All I can think about is the Yankees,” I tell Michael after the game. “I was coming out of it, but now there's so much uncertainty.”

On Friday Joe holds a press conference at the Hilton Rye Town in Westchester, and Tom Goodman, my new friend from Spuntini in Toronto and George Brett's in Kansas City, handles the PR for the event.

I watch live coverage on ESPN. I choke up as I remember Joe's stoic look in the dugout throughout the years, all those walks to the mound, all his postgame musings. He has been the face of the Yankees—a classy face.

He says he found the 1-year aspect of the deal insulting. He was not too crazy about the incentives part, either. He answers question after question. I know how much the beat writers appreciated his accessibility. This is a sad day for them, too.

Later, Cashman reveals that the brain trust has already reached out to three candidates for the managerial job: Mattingly, Girardi, and Tony Pena. All three will fly to Tampa next week for their interviews.

Joe's body is not even cold and they are picking out his successor. On the other hand, the clock is ticking on A-Rod. Cashman repeated that the Yankees will not negotiate with him if he decides to opt out of his contract, and the opt-out
date is approaching. Will hiring Mattingly increase the likelihood that A-Rod will stay in New York? What about Girardi and Pena? Or does Scott Boras simply want to sell his client to the highest bidder?

On Saturday Scott Boras tells SI.com that A-Rod is not likely to sign with the Yankees by the deadline if the organization is in disarray. He says Alex can't possibly make a long-term commitment before knowing who the manager is going to be, not to mention whether Mo, Posada, Pettitte, and Abreu are coming back.

Michael and I turn on the TV to watch Red Sox–Indians. J. D. Drew hits a grand slam in the first inning. We turn off the TV.