Confessions of a She-Fan (20 page)

“Hey,” I say in my most chipper voice. “Are you going to the game tonight?”

“Yup.” He keeps his head down, not meeting my eyes.

“You a big Royals fan?”

This elicits a smile. “Been watching 'em a long time.”

“Have any favorite players?”

“Alex Gordon, our third baseman. Real good-looking kid. Played college ball in Nebraska like the Yankees' kid, Chamberlain.”

“You don't mind that the Royals lose so much?”

He bristles. “We won the World Series in '85. I go to see 'em for better or worse.”

When the bus comes along, I wish him and his team luck and walk away counting my blessings,the way you do whenever it dawns on you how lucky you are. I am sure there are people with his disease who confine themselves to their house, never risking ridicule. And yet this guy not only ventures out in public, but goes to a baseball stadium, just so he can see his team play in person—and probably lose. If he is not a true fan, I do not know who is.

For tonight's game we are in section 140, row EE, which is on the main level in right field, at the foul pole.

Pettitte gets the start versus Bannister.

The Yankees play home run derby. Damon and Betemit go deep. So does A-Rod—twice. In the bottom of the sixth, with the Yanks up 11–2, you would think the Royals fans would lose interest and leave. They don't. In fact, they cheer loudly when their team scores a run off Chris Britton in the eighth.

We beat Kansas City 11–5, but the fans here are not the least bit upset. They have spent a sunny day at the ballpark, and life is good.

We take the bus back to the Plaza, where it is not just any Saturday night.
Tonight is the special WaterFire—an annual event where fires are set in the man-made canals that weave in and around the shopping area.

“All this and the Yankees won,” says Michael as he snaps pictures of the flames reflecting on the water.

I don't answer. I am studying my own reflection. I am thinking about the Royals fan on the bus. And I am wondering who the hell I am these days.

Sunday is getaway day for the Yankees, but not for Michael and me. The team is flying to Toronto after this afternoon's game, but our flight doesn't leave until tomorrow night at 6:00. I watch their minions load luggage onto their bus. It will be awfully quiet at the hotel without them. No autograph seekers. No groupies. No beat writers. No nutty hangers-on. No members of the traveling carnival, period. I will miss everybody.

Our own bus, the Royals Express, leaves at 12:25 for the 1:10 start. It is not crowded today, so we get seats. In back of us is a guy in his forties wearing a Red Sox cap. I ask him—nicely—what he is doing here. He says he is from Vermont and came to KC on business. When he found out the Yankees were in town, he got tickets for the game to boo them in person.

“Why are Red Sox fans so angry?” I ask. “You won the World Series in '04 and beat the Yankees to get there. What's your problem?”

“You beat us over and over and in the most horrible ways,” he says. “And besides that, Red Sox fans never let go of anything.”

He is still fuming about Boston's loss to Baltimore yesterday.

“Dice-K walked three batters in an inning, and Francona didn't take him out. The next batter hit a grand slam. That loss was totally preventable!”

I laugh at how much he reminds me of myself. “You have a very comfortable lead in the division.”

He shakes his head. “There is no such thing for a Red Sox fan. The Yankees can always come back and beat us. The fear never goes away.”

I pat him on the shoulder to console him.

Michael can't believe I am being friendly to someone with that “B” on his cap. “What have you done with my wife?” he whispers in my ear.

As we start to get off the bus, I pass two elderly, silver-haired women sitting together in Royals T-shirts.

“Need any help?” I ask.

“With what?” one of them replies.

“Walking up the aisle or making it down the steps.”

“We're fine, honey. Just catching our breath.”

“Do you come to the games very often?”

“Every Sunday, like clockwork,” the other woman pipes up. “First we go to church. Then we come see our boys. We never miss a game when they're home.”

I wish them a good day and follow Michael out of the bus. “Talk about She-Fans. Those two are hardcore,” I say. “I love that their doubleheader is religion and baseball.”

We settle into our seats just in time for the national anthem. We are in section 307, row H—back in the upper deck but behind home plate instead of in the right-field boonies.

Wang is going for his 18th victory. He has Taiwanese fans here in KC. They are waving their little flags.

A-Rod hits his 52nd home run in the top of the first, and even Royals fans applaud. The guy has now homered in his fifth straight game.

The Royals tie the score at 3–3 in the bottom of the fourth on a bases-loaded double by Alex Gordon, the favorite of the fan on the bus. But the Yanks take a 6–3 lead on RBIs by Posada and Cano.

Farnsworth pitches a scoreless eighth. Mo is lights out in the ninth. And we sweep a team we needed to sweep. We have won five straight and are now four over the Tigers for the wild card.

“
I had another Yankee dream
,
” I tell Michael on Monday morning. “It was Damon this time. He needed to get in touch with his mother and asked me to help him find her.”

“You must really think you're indispensable to the Yankees,” he says.

After breakfast I check e-mail. And—shock of all shocks—there is one from Jason Zillo!

“Sorry for the delay,” he writes. “If you are still interested, I may have a bit of time over the next few days while in Toronto.”

I scream with excitement.

I immediately reply that I am flying to Toronto tonight and will be available during the series anytime he is. I give him my cell phone number.

At 5:30 we board the Bombardier CRJ/100 at the KC airport. We land in Toronto without incident and move through Customs. Our officer is a tough guy, like the last one.

“What is the nature of your business in Canada?”

“I'm writing a book about the Yankees and am here to see them play the Blue Jays.”

“Too bad for you,” he growls. “The Yankees suck, eh?”

On Tuesday morning, I read in the Toronto
Globe and Mail
that it's September 11—the anniversary of 9/11. I have been so out of touch with the real world that I forgot what the date signified.

Fortunately, they have not forgotten at the Rogers Centre, where tonight we open a three-game series against the Blue Jays. We are in section 113A, row 4—right on the field behind first base—and have a great view of the pregame ceremony commemorating 9/11 and New York City firefighters. As the Yankees stand next to each other along the first-base line, caps across their hearts, Canadian firefighters play “Amazing Grace” on the bagpipes. It is a beautiful and tasteful observance.

Hughes gets the start. He is not dominant, but he keeps the Yankees in the game. Posada hits his 20th homer to put the Yanks up 4–2, and they break the game open on Giambi's grand slam. Edwar is brilliant in relief and Ohlendorf, the latest call-up, retires the Jays in order to end the game.

The Yankees win 9–2—their sixth straight victory.

There is medical news on Wednesday. Apparently, Clemens has a sore elbow. His MRI shows ligament damage, but he is penciled in to start Sunday's big game in Boston. Michael doesn't feel so great, either. He is still sneezing, and the weather here doesn't help. It is cold and blustery. Where did summer go?

I don't hear from Jason Zillo about getting together, so I e-mail him again.

Frustrated, I contact Rick Cerrone, the Yankees' former media relations director. He is senior vice president at Dan Klores Communications, a PR firm in New York. He is as friendly as can be when I say that Tom Goodman suggested I get in touch.

“I should tell you right away I can't talk about the Yankees,” he says. “It's still too painful. When they didn't renew my contract at the end of last year, it was like coming home and finding a note from my wife saying she left me for another man. I don't have a team anymore. I just don't have a team.”

“Can you tell me what happened?”

“I'll just say that after 11 years on the job, making three times what I made when I started, they wanted to promote Jason, who had been my assistant. I was devastated. I was living my dream.”

“I'm sorry things ended that way for you.”

“Me, too.”

“Tell me something. Why is it so hard getting access to the Yankees?”

“Let me explain the job and maybe it'll put Jason's position in perspective for you,” he says. “My biggest challenge was that there were hundreds of people requesting this and that. Every single one of them knew who I was, but I didn't know who every single one of them was. So whenever a request would come across my desk my motto was: ‘Nothing good can come of this.' When someone asks for access, you just never know what will come of it.”

“I'm not trying to bring the organization down,” I say. “I'm just writing a book about my relationship with them.”

“If I were in charge, you would have access. I'll put in a good word with Jason.”

Our seats at the Rogers Centre tonight are in section 130A—along the third base line and
in the front row
. We have finally made it to the railing. There is no one between A-Rod and me except a Mountie.

Mussina is making his first start since August 27, and I have no idea what to expect from him.

Damon is the DH tonight, and when he strikes out in the top of the first, the cretin next to me yells, “Hey, Jesus. Why'd you cut off your hair?”

The cretin is a 30-year-old Yankee fan from New Jersey, now living in Toronto. He hates Damon for being a former Red Sock, but he reserves his deepest venom for A-Rod.

“He's a pretty boy who's as gay as Mike Piazza.”

I was too harsh by singling out the idiots in Detroit who harassed the Mariners fan for being a Jap-loving gay Jew. This guy from New Jersey is no higher on the food chain. When the speakers blast the “Mexican Hat Dance,” he says, “It's a stupid Chico song, but it's better than the Jew song they play at Yankee Stadium.” I assume he is referring to “Hava Nagila.”

Mussina is brilliant, holding the Jays scoreless through seven-plus innings, allowing the batters to do their jobs. The Yanks are up 4–0 when Joba pitches the bottom of the eighth and gives up the first run of his major league career, albeit unearned, for 4–1. Mo notches his 26th save.

The Yankees win their seventh straight game. This is the streak I have been waiting for.

On Thursday there is still no response from Jason Zillo.

Our seats for tonight's finale at the Rogers Centre are in section 113A, row 3—back on the first-base side. Ian Kennedy goes against A. J. Burnett—a tough matchup for the kid. Betemit is at first, which makes me wonder yet again why the Yankees bothered to sign Mientkiewicz.

After the Jays score on a double by the Big Hurt in the first, both pitchers really settle in. Burnett is nasty, but Kennedy is not giving anything away, either. He has a one-hitter through seven innings. With the score tied at 1–1, Joe pulls him for Viz. The Yankees don't get to Burnett in the top of the ninth, even though he is at 120 pitches. Joe sends Britton out for the bottom half and I scratch my head. Is he saving everyone for Boston? Britton gives up singles to Rios and the Big Hurt, and we lose 2–1—a game we could and should have won.

The Yankees are coming down the stretch now, with less than three more weeks to go in the season. The series in Boston this weekend will mean some-thing—well, it always means something between the Yankees and Red Sox—and could determine whether there will be October baseball for both teams.

As for me, I am really looking forward to this weekend. I will see my old Scarsdale friend Susan, whom I have not seen since Michael and I got married. I will see Michael's brother Geoff, whom I have not seen since we moved to California. And I will see Boston, which I have not seen since the '60s, when I sat on the floor of some hippie-folkie place and listened to Richie Havens sing Dylan songs. It is not only that the clock is ticking on my quest to meet a Yankee. It is also ticking on Michael's health; his cold has moved into his chest. We are coming down a stretch of our own.

Friday is both getaway day and game day.

The Hyatt in downtown Boston is around the corner from Boston Common, which means it is around the corner from the Ritz-Carlton, which means it is around the corner from where the Yankees are staying.

“May we have a quiet room?” I ask the man at the front desk when we check in.

“Certainly.” He hands me our keys.

After a short nap, we walk to the Boylston Street Station. The early evening
weather is clear and cold. I am thankful Michael and I packed our winter jackets, and we bundle up. By the way, mine is red.

“Everyone will assume I'm a Red Sox fan,” I say as we ride the C train on the green line to Kenmore station. “No one will throw anything at me.”

“Pussy,” says Michael.

We get off the subway and wind our way down the narrow streets toward Fenway. Crowds are lined up outside various pubs and restaurants, which are already bulging with people. More crowds congregate around the street vendors—the “Sausage King” seems to be a big favorite. It is as if they are all attending a giant block party.

We enter through Gate C and head to the Big Concourse, where a food court offers several concessions. I end up with the dreaded chicken tenders. Michael gets a double order of hot dogs since each one is so small. He says they are limp and cold and nestled in a mushy bun. The food here is beyond disgusting.

“But we aren't here for the food,” he says cheerfully as we go looking for our seats. He loves Fenway. He thinks it is the coolest of all the ballparks, because it is historic and quirky and reminds him of Little League.

We find the bleachers. Actually, it is not the bleachers that are hard to find. It is our seats. They are way up in section 43, row 40—the two seats at the very end of the row, in right field. One of the people we have to step over is an obese woman who is chain-smoking. There are no ushers or security guards around, and I am not about to lecture her about her lung cancer stick. She is way bigger than I am.

Within minutes the chain-smoker is joined by three other people who seem—how can I put this delicately?—mentally challenged in a just-out-of-the-asylum sort of way. They move down the row and fill in the empty seats between the chain-smoker and us. One of them is a man with a gigantic scar that runs down the middle of his forehead. As soon as he lands in his seat, he slumps over and shuts his eyes. Another is a tall, creepy, heavyset man—we are talking 6'5" and 280 pounds minimum—with pockmarked skin and a long, brown braid. He is wearing baggy gray sweatpants, along with a beat-up leather jacket. He takes the seat next to Michael. Well, he takes part of Michael's seat, too, because he is too large to fit into his own seat.

“Hello. My name is Barry,” he says to us, speaking in a very slow, slurred speech. “What's your name?”

“Michael,” says my husband.

“Jane,” I say.

Barry stares off into space.

The other member of their group is a woman who sits between Barry and Scarface. She is wearing a white uniform under her wool coat. She reaches into her purse for a vial of pills and dispenses them to Barry, Scarface, and the chain-smoker.

There are small pockets of Yankee fans in the bleachers, and they are barraged with “Yankees suck” chants. I, on the other hand, am warm and safe in my red jacket. I even pretend to be a Boston fan. Every few minutes I shout, “Let's go, Red Sox!” and nobody bothers me.

I take a long look around the ballpark. It is certainly unusual with its Green Monster. But the fans are right on top of the field. What is so awe-inspiring about that? Yankee Stadium is regal, imposing. This place is puny—like a toy park.

The lineups are announced, and I am surprised to hear Giambi is playing first. Jason is a nice guy, by all the beat writers' accounts. But Mientkiewicz is the one who can catch the ball at first base, so why not use him in an important series like this?

The pitching match up is Pettitte versus Dice-K.

Here we go.

After Damon beats out an infield single, Dice-K throws high and tight to Jeter. A-Rod gets plunked on the first pitch he sees. No warnings are issued.

In the bottom of the first, Lugo reaches on an error by Giambi, who really does have lobster claws for hands. But it is in the bottom of the second that Boston gets on the board. Ellsbury, the rookie who is playing center instead of Crisp, singles home Youkilis for 1–0.