and Lonnie was pitching for the Sox, I
knew
I’d be around to see them win the Series. You know how it is when you’re eighteen and bulletproof. Now, holy shit, I’m fifty-seven, I’ve been hit by a car, I had a lung practically go up in smoke this winter, and I realize maybe it really won’t happen. And still I look at our team and sometimes wonder…
Who are these guys?
Oh well. I used to joke, you know, about having a tombstone that read: STEPHEN KING with the dates, and then, below that, a single sock, and below that: NOT IN MY LIFETIME. And below that: NOT IN YOURS, EITHER. Not a bad tagline, huh? March 18th
I’m shocked to read in the paper that Nomar is 0 for spring—0 for 8, really—and has missed four straight games with that bruised heel. Cesar Crespo’s seizing the opportunity, hitting .435. Maybe he can take that extra roster spot. March 19th
Trot flies out to L.A. to get checked by a specialist and looks doubtful for Opening Day. Kapler, who took a pay cut to stay with the Sox, must be cursing his agent.
Nomar shows up at the clubhouse with a boot on his foot. The trainer’s diagnosed him with Achilles tendinitis, but an MRI shows no structural damage. And Manny, I discover, is hitting .172. Now I’m glad we’ve got a few weeks to get things together.
The lottery for Green Monster seats begins, one entry per e-mail address. After getting aced out of regular tickets, I’m resigned, punching in our two entries.
Then I get an idea. I have dozens of friends who have no interest in Monster seats. I can use their names, and if by some chance they win, I can pay them face value for the tickets. I imagine scalpers are using dozens, even hundreds, of e-mail addresses.
The comparison’s unavoidable. Now I’m like them, bending the rules in my greed for the seats. It feels decidedly squirmy, and yet for the next few hours I span the continent, tapping Oklahoma and the Rockies and San Francisco and Edmonton for names, addresses, phone numbers and birthdays donated by pitying friends. March 20th
The team dwindles as Theo assigns seven players to the minors, including optioning Kevin Youkilis to Pawtucket.
Steve’s worried about Trot, and brings up Tim Naehring, our ill-fated third baseman of the nineties. Naehring was that agonizing player who’s vastly talented but always hurt. At 6′2″, 205, he wasn’t delicate, but he broke his wrist, he broke his ankle, he had a bad back. He was on the DL so much that he came to seem like a platoon player. When he finally retired at age thirty, it seemed possible that he was just hurt again. That’s not how Trot wants to go out. March 21st
This morning Philadelphia blew up the Vet. While Phillies fans remembered their one World Series win, Eagles fans hoped it would change their luck. Back when our old owners were planning to build a new Fenway, I heard the same kind of superstitious talk out of stalwarts like Ted Williams (who always hated the Monster’s effect on Sox pitchers). So, if we win, do we have to keep it as a good-luck charm? The Vet, like Three Rivers Stadium or the Kingdome, bit the dust not because it was unlucky or falling down, but because it just wasn’t a fun place to watch a ball game. That’s not true of Fenway, unless you’re stuck behind a pole or in line for the bathroom. The true test of a ballpark, and maybe a ball club, is percent capacity—how many butts versus how many seats—and Fenway’s aced that test every year since 1967.
Steve couldn’t even scrounge a ticket to the Sox-Jays game yesterday—at
their
place.
SO: I can see you in the parking lot, wagging a finger, waylaying strangers—“Need one.”
SK: The Sox are a hot ticket everywhere they go in Florida. Folks think they are a genna-wine Team of Destiny. They banged out Ed Wood Stadium, or whatever they call the place here in Sarasota where Cincy plays; first time in two years. And were turning them away at the door. All that and Air-Cast Nomar didn’t even