Confessions of a She-Fan (12 page)

“Why is that, eh?”

“Because I have better connections here in Toronto. I'll have to put you in the bleachers in Cleveland.”

I was hoping to be done with the up-up-up there seats. Still, I need to be at every game, so I take his bleacher seats and buy Tier tickets for next week's series at Yankee Stadium against Baltimore and Detroit.

When we are finished, I check e-mail. There is one from my friend Kandy in Santa Barbara. She alerts me that the Zaca Fire has spread closer to where we live. I had forgotten all about it! She says residents in the area have been advised to be prepared in case of a mandatory evacuation.

Suddenly, the issue of tickets, never mind the Yankees, is the last thingIam worrying about. I e-mail Dorothy, my friend and neighbor, and ask her what is happening. Is the house in danger? Is there a state of emergency? Should we come home right away? She writes back that the situation is serious and that everything depends on the direction of the winds. She says for us to wait another day before deciding what to do. She reminds me that she has a key to
the house in case there is an evacuation and we are not back. She asks which possessions of ours she should grab and where she should look for them. She is not an alarmist, which alarms me all the more.

I fill Michael in. Naturally, he is as worried as I am.

“We could lose all your photographs and all my books,” I say.

“Everything we own.”

“But we've only just started our trip.”

“And you've got a contract to honor.”

“What do you think we should do?”

“Maybe give it another day, like Dorothy suggested.”

We sit together in silence, holding each other. We are connecting in a way we haven't connected in months.

By 7:00 we are in our seats at the Rogers Centre. They are only five rows from the field, and the proximity to the players is thrilling. I can practically pluck Jorge's eyebrows. The roof is closed because of the steady rain, and it's like watching a game in a gymnasium. There are many Yankee fans in our section, although next to me is a Blue Jays fan and his 7-year-old son. I ask the father if he minds that there are so many fans rooting for the Yankees. He shrugs and says, “That's just how it is,eh?”

Clemens is on the hill tonight. He is coming off his two-inning “performance,” so he should have plenty of gas in the tank. In the top of the third, A-Rod comes to the plate and the Jays' pitcher, Josh Towers, hits him in the calf with a fastball. Having been thrown at last night, A-Rod has had enough. He takes a few steps toward Towers and says something along the lines of “You want a piece of me?” or maybe just “What the fuck?” Both benches empty, but no punches are thrown. Eventually, the inning resumes—for a second. Before Towers throws another pitch, he and Tony Pena get into it, and both benches empty again. It is fun to see which players are itching for a fight and which hang back. I have never seen Jeter clock anyone, for example, or even look menacing. Shelley Duncan, on the other hand, has a rookie's lack of fear and puts himself right in the thick of things.

Clemens has a shutout going into the seventh—a two-hitter. But when Rios steps in to lead off the inning, the Rocket plunks him in the back. He has clearly and without remorse retaliated for A-Rod getting drilled and is tossed for it. As his teammates gather around him on the mound, he argues with the
umpire before departing. I read his lips. He is telling the ump, “I know you have a job to do and I respect that, but I have a job to do, too.”

As I watch Clemens walk off the field, I feel this keen sense of admiration for him, and it floors me. I have never liked the man. I pegged him as an egotistical asshole. I thought he was a jerk for hitting Mike Piazza in the head. I thought his whole tough Texan act was bullshit. But he is suddenly and unexpectedly my hero. Even though he was pitching a shutout, he risked ejection and defended his teammate. He stood up to the Blue Jays and their fans. He used the pitch to Rios to say “Leave my guy alone.” If I were A-Rod, I would kiss him full on the mouth.

The rest of the game is anticlimactic, except for the major league debut of Joba Chamberlain. He was brought up today from Scranton, and Bruney was sent down. A big tall 21-year-old, he relieves in the eighth and fires fastballs at 96, 97, and98mph along with a few devastating sliders,stunning the Blue Jays. He is back for the ninth, reaches 100 mph on the radar gun, and records his second scoreless inning.

The Yankees win 9–2 for their fifth straight victory. I bet Boston fans are starting to look in their rearview mirrors.

I wake up on Wednesday and e-mail Dorothy to see if there is news about the fire. She responds right away, and the news is good. The winds cooperated last night and did not cause the fire to spread. She says that it's still a threat, but the area that borders our houses will be secured soon. She thinks the crisis has been averted.

Michael and I are relieved, to put it mildly. We take an afternoon walk. Just down the street from the Park Hyatt is an imposing stone-and-brick residential complex. A shiny black Bentley pulls out of its motor court. In the driver's seat is Frank Thomas.

“It's the Big Hurt,” I whisper to Michael as the car stops for oncoming traffic.

He peers into the Bentley. “It is
not
.”

“You know I'm always right about this stuff.” And I am. I have this uncanny, rather bizarre ability to recognize famous and even marginally famous people, baseball players especially. Michael, on the other hand, recognizes no one. “Check out his license plate. It's HRTTT.”

He looks at the plate and concedes it is Thomas.

“I should go talk to him,” I say. “I'll interview him about playing the Yankees.”

“I bet he won't stop for you.”

This time he is right. The Big Hurt practically runs me over, speeding away as I approach his car.

We go back to the Park Hyatt, where we split a club sandwich in the 18th floor lounge. We are the only two guests there. As we pay the check, I ask the waiter what it's like having the Yankees stay at the hotel. He laughs and says, “No other team or sports star—not even Gretzky—has so much security. It's like they're really serious about keeping people away.”

“I'm one of those people,” I admit.

“So you camp outside and wait for them to come out?” he asks.

“I have a legitimate reason. I'm writing a book about them.”

“Sure you are, eh?”

It is a beautiful, clear night for the finale of this three-game series, so the roof at the Rogers Centre is open. Again, Mike has gotten us seats that are only five rows from the field. They are just past first base, not far from the visitors' dugout.

A-Rod is sitting out this game with a sore calf, thanks to the pitch from Josh Towers, and Betemit is playing third. Wang is facing Halladay—no easy matchup.

In the first inning, it is obvious how this game will go. Halladay has great stuff and Wang is leaving his sinker up, allowing the Blue Jays to spray hits all over the turf. By the end of the sixth, it is 14–2 Toronto. The Yankees make an attempt at a comeback in the top of the seventh on homers by Matsui and Cano. But the final score is 15–4—a drubbing. Torre always says it is tougher to lose a close game than a blowout, but I don't agree. Blowouts are humiliating.

Back at the hotel, I get an e-mail from George King of the
New York Post
. I had asked my friend Larry Brooks to put in a good word for me. George has been covering the Yankees the longest of all the beat writers, so I am thrilled he has agreed to an interview—until I read the rest of his e-mail. He suggests I meet him in the press box at 2:00 on Friday afternoon in Cleveland. I feel like a dork as I write back that I am not allowed in the press box.

I go to bed thinking that while Jason Zillo may only be doing his job by refusing me access, he is also thwarting me from doing mine.

Thursday is getaway day. At the Toronto airport, I grill the ticket agent at the Continental counter. We are on a commuter partner called ExpressJet Airlines, and I ask about the equipment.

“It's an Embraer 135,” she tells me.

“How big is the plane?”

“It holds about 30 people. You'll definitely feel the bumps.”

After a stop at the Currency Exchange to give back our Canadian money, it is on to Customs. The inspector is stern, as if he expects to nab our cache of stolen diamonds.

“What business have you been conducting in Canada?” he asks.

“I'm writing a book about the Yankees,and I came to watch them play the Blue Jays. I'm following them to every game.”

“No kidding.” His face lights up. “How long will it take to write the book?”

“I'm not sure. I'm still in the research stage.”

“Will it be out soon? I'm a big reader. My wife is, too.”

“It's up to my publisher when it'll be out.” There is a line of people waiting behind us.

“Is Jeter still dating Miss Universe?”

“I'll ask him the next time I see him.”

He winks at Michael.“You get to travel everywhere with her. Not bad for you, eh?”

Michael gives the guy his best game face.

As we board the flight I gasp. “This isn't a plane. It's a sedan.”

“Pretend it's Steinbrenner's private jet,” Michael suggests.

During takeoff the pilot tells us there is rain in Cleveland. Luckily Rhonda, our lone flight attendant, is selling screw-top chardonnay.

After we land, we wheel our bags outside to the airport taxi stand.

“Where to?” asks the attendant.

“The InterContinental Suites on Euclid Avenue, please,” I tell him.

“Oh, you're going to the Cleveland Clinic?”

“That's a hospital,” I say. “We're going to a hotel.”

“Same place.” He whistles for the next cab to pull up.

“Something's wrong,” I whisper to Michael as the driver is loading our suitcases into his trunk.

“Maybe Lisa got us a good rate at the Cleveland Clinic,” he jokes.

Neither of us is laughing when we get to the InterContinental. It is in the middle of nowhere, not even close to Jacobs Field, and it is, indeed, part of the Cleveland Clinic's complex of buildings. Judging by the condition of the guests in the lobby, the hotel is sort of a halfway house for people who have had surgery or are about to.

I tell the front desk clerk I would like to cancel our reservation. She suggests we try the Marriott Key, and off we go. The Marriott is more expensive, but we grab a room. We are relieved to be free of people walking around with their IV poles.

After we unpack, I check e-mail. George King says he will come to the Marriott for lunch tomorrow, and I can interview him then. And Dorothy e-mails with even better news. The Zaca Fire has been contained on its southern border where it was threatening our houses, so we are in the clear. She says the air is full of soot and ash, but that is the worst of it. Oh, and she says our tomato plants are dead.

Speaking of tomatoes, I am starving. All I have had today is plane wine. As soon as the rain lets up, we have dinner at the Blue Point Grille in the Warehouse District, a section that has been renovated and now boasts the best nightspots in downtown Cleveland. The restaurant is having a special on lobster tonight, and Michael orders it. I can't believe it. Lobster gives him a bellyache like almost no other food, and yet here he is, dipping a claw into melted butter. I dread how bad he will feel later, but the smile on his face right now is a beautiful thing.

On Friday morning George King calls to cancel lunch.

“There's a lot of stuff going on with the Yankees,” he says.

“Like what?”

“The whole A-Rod steroids issue.”

What issue? Chipper Jones made a harmless remark after a game against the Mets the other day. He said that anybody who approaches Bonds's numbers will be asked the steroids question, including A-Rod. He never accused anybody of anything.

“I have a conference call with my editor around noon,” says George. “Let's try again for tomorrow, same place.”

I try to think of another way into the Yankees and come up with Suzyn
Waldman, who has been covering the team for over 20 years—from WFAN to WCBS, where she is now John Sterling's color commentator. She has been a pioneer for women in the field of sports broadcasting. She will get how badly I need information about the Yanks.

I leave a message on John's cell, asking if he will put in a good word with Suzyn. And then I call Mike, the broker in Toronto, to buy tickets for the Boston series at Yankee Stadium. He tells me he can get me some up-up-up-there Tier seats—for a steep price. “It's a big series, eh?”

Michael and I ask the concierge how to get to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, and he gives us a map. We also ask where we can find the nearest drugstore so Michael can buy Pepcid for his post-lobster-binge heartburn, and he points us in the direction of a CVS/pharmacy. While Michael is shopping, I notice the magnificent Roman Catholic cathedral across the street and hurry over. Inside the church, which was built in the 1940s and smells like incense and flowers, I dip my fingers in holy water and take a seat. I bow my head.