Free Faithful by Stephen King, Stewart O’Nan Page A

lugging my glove.
    On Brookline Ave a billboard with a big picture of Nomar asks us to KEEP THE FAITH.
    Before I turn the corner, I find a scalper leaning against a wall, muttering, “Anyone buyin’, anyone sellin’.” I tell him I have one, and we haggle. Even though it’s hours before game time, it’s Pedro-Halladay, and I want at least face value. He lowballs so I walk, but there’s a young Korean tourist lurking behind him who steps forward and offers to trade me a Yankee ticket for it—the Patriots’ Day game, which starts at 11 A.M., way too early for us to get here. I jump on the trade, then turn and sell the $20 bleacher seat to the scalper for well more than the face value of today’s ticket, and walk away grinning. It’s rare that you scalp a scalper.
    On Lansdowne the Sausage King and the souvenir guys by Gate E are setting up. A band of college kids wearing long dark wigs and beards walks by; their shirts say DAMON’S DISCIPLES. I stake my claim to a pillar by the entrance to the elevated parking lot, leaning against it to hide my glove behind my back, and watch the Monster. I’m almost under the Coke bottles, between them and Fisk’s foul pole, the perfect spot for dead-pull hitters. But nothing’s coming over. It’s too early; they’re still running the tour groups through.
    A father and son join me. They’ve got standing rooms on the Monster and they’re hoping to catch a ball. I wish them luck and post up by Gate E, hoping to be the first one in so I can grab my favorite corner spot down the left-field line.
    After a nervous five minutes waiting for them to roll open the corrugated-steel doors, I’m the second one through the turnstiles and the first into the grandstand. The Sox are already batting. As I make my way down to the empty corner, I see Johnny Pesky walking out toward left field with a fungo bat and hail him. Johnny joined the club as a shortstop in 1942. He’s eighty-five and still putting on the uniform. He waves back, a Fenway benediction.
    Bending over the low wall and reaching with my glove, I can just touch the plastic left-field foul line (yeah, weird, not chalk but a permanent strip of plastic). I wait for a hot grounder into the corner, pounding my glove.
    Nothing comes. The Sox finish and the Jays take the field. A liner hooks over us for Section 33—“Heads up!”—and bangs into the seats. A few balls off the wall end up in the corner, but these the outfielders toss up or hand to little kids.
    Out in left, #27 for the Jays has been shagging flies. As he comes in for his turn in the cage, I see he has a ball in his mitt. “Hey, two-seven,” I holler, and he looks around and tosses it to me.
    It’s Frank Catalanotto, their left fielder and number two hitter, whose triple started them off yesterday.
    Still nothing down the line. A lot of balls are banging off the Monster or reaching the seats. One arcs down into the front row, where a big guy in a windbreaker catches it barehanded against his chest and gets a hand. It’s the dad from Lansdowne. The kid’s all excited.
    Later, on his way back out to left, Catalanotto picks up a ball from the grass behind third and—amazingly—tosses it to me. When he comes off, I ask if he’ll sign one, and he does. It’s the only autograph he gives, and while he’s not a star, I feel lucky, singled out.
    BP’s finished, and I wander over to Steve’s seats behind the Sox on-deck circle. They’re dream seats, so close that, say, Manny swinging his taped-up piece of rebar intrudes on your view of Ortiz at the plate. Julie, the assistant who’s babysitting Steve’s tickets, might be there, and I need to talk to her. I plant myself in his seat and admire the balls and Catalanotto’s illegible signature. As game time nears, I wonder if Julie’s coming. If not, fine. I’ll just sit here.
    Before the game starts, there’s already good news on the scoreboard:
    CWS 7
    NYY 3
    Pedro comes out throwing 89–90. Catalanotto