Free Faithful by Stephen King, Stewart O’Nan

over. Two down. When he goes to a full count on Chris Gomez, the crowd rises, cheering the absurdity of it. McCarty reaches back and throws one by Varitek all the way to the backstop, walking Gomez and giving Hinske third. The crowd subsides, and then groans when Cash blasts a double to the triangle in center, scoring both runners. It’s 10–5, and the casual fans head for the exits, while the diehards sneak down to steal their seats.
    The good news is that they’ve changed the numbers on the scoreboard for the Yankees–White Sox game. Chicago’s up 5–1 in the fifth.
    In the bottom of the ninth, with one down and Bellhorn up, Brian Daubach comes out and walks over to the on-deck circle. Bellhorn flies out, and the crowd rises for Dauber (Eminem’s on the PA: “Guess who’s back, back again”), hoping he’ll give us something to cheer about. He grounds weakly to second, and we’ve lost the home opener.
    The walk to the car seems long. At least it’s nice out. We mutter about Timlin, and laugh at how I missed the one great moment of the game. It’s still a good day.
    On the Mass Pike, we pass a car with a bumper sticker that says JOB WAS THE FIRST RED SOX FAN, and it’s early enough in the year that it’s still funny. We tune into the PawSox playing Buffalo and catch the final of the Yankee game: White Sox 9, Yankees 3. It’s the Buffalo station we’re pulling in, and as we head west into the night and traffic thins, the signal grows stronger. The PawSox are leading 5–4, and mile after mile we get to catch up with Kevin Youkilis.

    Today was the first game I missed from beginning to end: I even dipped into last night’s Late Show, catching the tenth and eleventh of the game versus Baltimore the Sox ended up dropping in thirteen. My younger son Owen called me with an update on this one in the fourth, with the Sox down 4–1 (“Whoa, make that 4–2,” he said in the middle of the call, adding that Manny had hit the hardest line shot he—Owen—had ever seen; claimed it even looked like a bullet in slo-mo). Red Sox ended up losing 10–5, according to the Fox New England Sports Network ticker, which I for some reason get down here in Florida (ubiquitous Fox!). Man, Stewart! I’ll wait for the highlights (lowlights? deadlights?), but that doesn’t sound like Moneyball, that sounds like Uglyball. I’ll bet you anything that what’s-his-face, the converted fielder, pitched at least two innings. And the Yankees lost again. The AL East is looking My-T-Sof-Tee, at least in the early going. If I can get the game tomorrow, I intendto be there for the whole deal. It’s pretty important, I think, that Pedro be able to play the stopper and get us back to .500 early. Can’t wait for the standings tomorrow; .500 should be good enough to lead this fool’s parade.

April 10th
    While we were waiting in the Will Call line, we missed Nomar and Yaz and Dewey and Tommy Brady. Damn you, unwieldy ticketing process!
    The paper says that Mendoza was moved to the DL, and that Johnny will be out for a few days with a “golf ball–sized lump” on his knee. Yesterday before his first at-bat, they played “Ironman” for him, and here a foul ball takes him out.
    It also says the plane the Sox were supposed to take from Baltimore after the thirteen-inning game had mechanical problems, and with the delays, the team bus didn’t get to Fenway until 7:30 yesterday morning, which might account for their sleepwalking performance.
    Because we spent all day at the park yesterday, I can’t persuade anyone to go to tonight’s game, even with the Pedro–Roy Halladay matchup. It frees me to leave early. I rocket across the Mass Pike and get there a full two and a half hours before game time. I’m the first one in the lot (now twenty-five bucks, though the attendant assures me they raised the price last August). I score my Will Call tickets and head for Lansdowne, thinking I might shag some home runs. Like a little kid, I’m