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

singles sharply to center, but that’s it in the first. Halladay’s up at 93, 95. He’s 6′4″ with a patchy beard, and on the mound he looks Randy Johnson tall. Crespo leads off, and Halladay blows two by him, then freezes him with a backdoor curve. Bill Mueller and Ortiz barely get wood on the ball. Looks like it’s going to be a quick game.
    Josh Phelps leads off the top of the second with a drive down the right-field line. It looks like it’s going to drop, but Kapler digs hard and dives, tumbles in the dust and comes up with it. It’s even bigger when the next batter, Hinske, rips a single. There’s some muttering in the seats, but Pedro bears down and gets Hudson, then gets a borderline call on Woodward, and the Faithful stand and cheer him off.
    When Kapler stands on deck that inning, I call, “Great catch, Gabe,” and he turns in profile and nods. I’m so close I can read the writing on his T-shirt under his white home jersey. It’s a new tradition with the club; last year with Grady, the players wore all kinds of inside motivational slogans. Backwards across Gabe’s shoulders, it says ZAGGIN LAER. When he pops to third to end the inning, the ump inspects the scuffed ball and gives it to the Sox bat-boy (bat-man, really, because he’s a pro) Andrew. As Andrew’s coming back toward the circle, I call his name and hold up my glove, and he hits me. “Thanks, Andrew.”
    Ortiz is wearing a slogan too. ARE YOU GONNA—That’s all I can get.
    Both pitchers settle in. There are no rallies, no tight spots, just solo base runners stranded at first, and lots of strikeouts.
    In the bottom of the sixth, Crespo leads off with a slow roller to short. He busts it down the line and dives headfirst for the bag—safe. It’s a spark. Bill Mueller rolls one to Delgado, who makes the right decision and goes to second to get Crespo. David Ortiz comes up (“El Jefe!”) and after seeing a few pitches blasts one deep to right that makes us all rise. It carries the wall and caroms off the roof of the Sox bullpen. In the stands we’re high-fiving. David touches the plate, lifts his eyes and points with both hands to God.
    First pitch, Manny lines one for a single. Maybe Halladay’s tired. He’s thrown 80 pitches—120 Canadian. He blows away Kapler to end the inning.
    Pedro’s having a quick top of the seventh when, with two down, he gets behind Hudson 2-1. Hudson’s the number seven hitter, a second baseman and not a big guy, so Pedro goes after him. He can’t get his 90 mph fastball past him, and Hudson parks it in the Jays’ bullpen.
    It’s only 2–1 for one batter, as Bellhorn leads off the bottom with a slicing Pesky Pole homer.
    Pedro Ks the first batter in the top of the eighth. It’s his last inning, and as he sometimes does, he’s going to sign the win by striking out the side. Except after Catalanotto takes a backdoor curve for strike three, here comes Francona from the dugout. Pedro looks around, surprised. He glances out to the bullpen where Foulke is warming, as if he had no idea. Francona chucks Pedro on the shoulder as if to say good job and takes the ball from him.
Boooooo!
Pedro high-fives everyone in conference at the mound, then, as he’s walking off, before crossing the first-base line, touches his heart, kisses his pitching hand and points to God. Huge standing O. At the top of the dugout steps he stops and points to God again, holding the pose a little too long, but hey, that’s Pedro. (This is the kind of showboating that gets him booed in other parks, but here, after taking on Halladay, it’s okay.)
    Petey’s thrown 106 pitches, but I wonder if it’s more of a power move on Francona’s part, taking an early opportunity to show the media and the talk-radio fans that this is his club and he can make Pedro do something he doesn’t want to do (as opposed to Grady, who couldn’t take the ball from him when it was clear he needed to come out). Foulke gets Vernon Wells on a roller, so