Free The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon by Stephen King Page B

the start of the season and had hardly lost since.
    â€œCome on, Tom,” she whispered. In a Castle View hotel room her mother was in an agony of terror; her father was on a Delta flight from Boston to Portland to join Quilla and his son; at the Castle County state police barracks, which had been designated Rally Point Patricia, search-parties very much like the ones the lost girl had imagined were coming back in after their first fruitless sallies; outside the barracks, newsvans from three TV stations in Portland and two in Portsmouth were parked; three dozen experienced woodsmen (and some were accompanied by dogs) remained in the forests ofMotton and the three unincorporated townships which stretched off toward New Hampshire’s chimney: TR-90, TR-100, and TR-110. The consensus among those remaining in the woods was that Patricia McFarland must still be in Motton or TR-90. She was a little girl, after all, and likely hadn’t wandered far from where she had last been seen. These experienced guides, game wardens, and Forest Service men would have been stunned to know that Trisha had gotten almost nine miles west of the area the searchers considered their highest priority.
    â€œCome on, Tom,” she whispered. “Come on, Tom, one two three, now. You know how it goes.”
    But not tonight. Gordon opened the top of the ninth by walking the handsome yet evil Yankee shortstop, Derek Jeter, and Trisha remembered something her father had once told her: when a team gets a lead-off walk, their chances of scoring rise by seventy percent.
    If we win, if Tom gets the save, I’ll be saved. This thought came to her suddenly—it was like a firework bursting in her head.
    It was stupid, of course, as dopey as her father knocking on wood before a three-and-two pitch (which he did every time), but as the dark drew deeper and the brook gave up its final silver tarnish, it also seemed irrefutable, as obvious as two-and-two-makes-four: if Tom Gordon got the save, she would get the save.
    Paul O’Neill popped up. One out. Bernie Williams came up. “Always a dangerous hitter,” Joe Castiglione remarked, and Williams immediately ripped a single to center, sending Jeter to third.
    â€œ Why did you say that, Joe?” Trisha moaned. “Oh cripes, why did you have to say that?”
    Runners on first and third, only one out. The Fenway crowd cheering, hoping. Trisha could imagine them leaning forward in their seats.
    â€œCome on, Tom, come on, Tom,” she whispered. The cloud of minges and noseeums were still all around her, but she no longer noticed. A feeling of despair touched her heart, cool and strong—it was like that hateful voice she had discovered in the middle of her head. The Yankees were too good. A base hit would tie it, a long ball would put it out of reach, and the awful, awful Tino Martinez was up, with the most dangerous hitter of all right behind him; the Straw Man would now be down on one knee in the on-deck circle, swinging a bat and watching.
    Gordon worked the count on Martinez to two and two, then threw his curveball. “ Struck him out! ” Joe Castiglione shouted. It was as if he couldn’t believe it. “Aw, man, that was a beauty! Martinez must have missed it by a foot!”
    â€œ Two feet,” Troop added helpfully.
    â€œSo it all comes to this,” Joe said, and behind his voice Trisha could hear the volume of the othervoices, the fan voices, begin to rise. The rhythmic clapping started. The Fenway Faithful were getting to their feet like a church congregation about to sing a hymn. “Two on, two out, Red Sox clinging to a one-run lead, Tom Gordon on the mound, and—”
    â€œDon’t you say it,” Trisha whispered, her hands still pressing against the sides of her mouth, “don’t you dare say it!”
    But he did. “And the always dangerous Darryl Strawberry coming to the plate.”
    That was it; game over; great