There's Always Next Year, Part 4

Friday, October 8, 2004

           

The Red Sox ended up with the Wild Card playoff spot and drew the American League West Champion Anaheim Angels in the Division Series. Being the Wild Card and not winning the division, they had to open on the road in the best three out of five game first round series. The bats opened up for the Sox in Anaheim, outscoring the Angels 17-6 to take the first two games. Game three was home at Fenway, where the Sox would look for a sweep of the series.

           

One concern for the team was the status of Curt Schilling. After leading the team with twenty-one wins during the regular season, Schilling was called upon to pitch game one in Anaheim and set the tone for the rest of the rotation. He pitched a solid game, allowing two earned runs over 6 2/3 innings, but he re-aggravated a right ankle injury from earlier in the season. It was being diagnosed as tendinitis and Schilling was scheduled to make his remaining scheduled starts for the rest of the playoffs, but it was a little concerning to fans and something to keep an eye one.

           

The Red Sox would be sending Bronson Arroyo to the mound to attempt to close out the series, and the Angels would be countering with eleven game winner Kelvim Escobar. The Sox faced Escobar once during the regular season in July, where he we was outdueled by Pedro Martinez in a 4-2 loss.

           

My dad and I took our normal route to the park for the 4:10 start. October weather was similar to early April; you needed layers, especially when the sun went down. With the winter months looming the night air tended to be more brisk.

           

The level of excitement from attending a regular season game was multiplied a hundred times over for a playoff game. The amount of fans walking around the ballpark before the game seemed to magnify, giving off a positive buzz with the anticipation of winning the series.

           

If there was any drawback of not having season tickets for a full season, it was that we were relocated to the bleachers for the entire post season. The seats were further off the field, and being more outside the action and surrounded by more people, there were tendencies for more distractions from the game. Plus most of the seats around Fenway were not built for the average size adult, being cramped on top of each other with not much leg room. I could usually follow multiple conversations of people sitting around me. But there was a totally different atmosphere in the bleachers, where most fans had two beers in their hands at all times during the game. I always had a blast, despite the diversions and the loud fan sitting behind you. We ended up in section forty, a small triangle of seats right behind the Red Sox bullpen. It was a good vantage point close to the field and straight back from the pitcher’s mound.

           

The game could not have started out any better. The Sox opened up a 6-1 lead after five innings, and Arroyo pitched a solid game, striking out seven Angels and allowing only two runs over six innings. It appeared they were on their way to an easy victory until it unraveled in the top of the seventh. After three walks and a single, the Angels scored a run and still had the bases loaded with their slugger Vladimir Guerrero coming to the plate. On a 0-1 pitch from Sox reliever Mike Timlin, Guerrero hit a towering shot that looked like it was going to clear the atmosphere.

           

“It’s coming right at us,” I said.

           

The Sox right fielder Trot Nixon made an effort on the ball, but it was no use. It cleared the wall in right center field for a grand slam. An engulfing groan was heard throughout the crowd. The game was tied at six. I couldn’t help but provoke that familiar sinking feeling in my gut. Was this all going to unravel right before my very eyes?

           

Our prayers were answered in the bottom on the tenth. With a runner on first base and two outs in the inning, Boston’s “Big Papi” David Ortiz hit the first pitch he saw off Angels’ pitcher Jerrod Washburn over the Green Monster. The ball park exploded. The team’s signature victory anthem, The Standells’ “Dirty Water”, was drowned out by the massive cheers.

           

The ballpark emptied out into the streets, where the cheers and energy of the crowd continued. As my father and I circled the ballpark, fans were calling for the Yankees, who were still dueling with Minnesota in their first round series. But Sox fans knew the inevitable, and with a potential rematch of 2003 looming, they wouldn’t have it any other way.

Tuesday, October 12, 2004

           

My buddy Jeff and a couple of other friends were picking me up at my apartment in Watertown. We were going to a concert out in Worcester, a city in the central part of the state about an hour from Boston along the Massachusetts Turnpike. I was looking forward to the concert, but I would be paying a price. The Red Sox would also be opening the American League Championship series in New York. I had bought my ticket for the concert months in advance, and unfortunately the timing couldn’t have been worse.

           

Overall I was pretty confident about the game. Curt Schilling would be taking the mound for the Sox in game one against the Yankees’ twelve game winner Mike Mussina, who was 1-1 in three starts against Boston during the regular season. This was the type of game that the Sox acquired Schilling for, and fans were expecting him to step up. Mussina on the other hand had been a thorn in the side of the Red Sox since signing with the Yankees in 2001. That same year, he almost threw a perfect game in September at Fenway Park. In game seven of the championship series in 2003, he pitched three stellar innings of scoreless relief, holding the Sox at four runs that allowed the Yankees to ultimately rally back in the game. It had all the makings for a classic matchup.

           

We made it to the arena in Worcester, but in the back of my mind I couldn’t help thinking how I was allowing myself the miss the game. Why on earth did I buy a ticket for a concert in the middle of October? My friends were in the same predicament, but it didn’t seem to bother them as much.

           

It turned out I didn’t miss much of anything. About halfway through the show I made my way to the concourse to fill up my beer. One of my friends was already in line, and I caught him just as he was hanging up his phone.

           

“Any word on the game?” I asked him.

           

“They’re losing 6-0. Schilling got shelled,” was all he could reply.

           

On the ride home we listened to the late innings in the car. The Sox were able to pull within one run in the top of the eighth, but the Yankees scored two more runs in the same inning. I was confident they had one more rally left in them, but up by three with two outs in the eighth, New York brought in Mariano Rivera to close out the game. Rivera didn’t actually arrive to Yankee Stadium until the second inning, flying directly from Panama after attending the funeral of two family members. It didn’t deter him from doing his job. After forcing first baseman Kevin Millar to pop out to end the eighth, he pitched a scoreless ninth to earn the save, a routine that Yankee fans had grown accustomed to in October.

           

The biggest concern for the Fenway Faithful was the status of Curt Schilling. His ankle injury appeared to be more serious than originally anticipated, and the Yankees took full advantage. He had ruptured the membrane surrounding a tendon, and his outlook for the rest of the postseason was doubtful. Talks of surgery in the offseason were already being discussed.

I couldn’t believe this was happening. The one guy the Sox brought in to help them over the hump and break the curse was going to succumb to an injury. It appeared the repeated nightmare of falling short to the Yankees was coming true all over again. With the luck of the Red Sox and what I’ve experienced in the past, what else was there to expect?

Saturday, October 16, 2004

           

Alan and I left Watertown on the afternoon of Friday the 15th and began driving into the city to attend game three until the radio told us that the game was postponed due to the weather. Watching the rain come down on my car, I was a little relieved we didn’t have to brave the elements. We turned around and headed home.

           

Saturday turned out to be a decent day and my dad and I headed to the game. Bronson Arroyo would be pitching for the Sox against the Yankees Kevin Brown. Boston was in a 0-2 hole coming back to Fenway, losing a tough pitcher’s duel in game two. Pedro Martinez allowed three runs over six innings, but it wasn’t enough. The Sox bats were stifled by Jon Lieber, who allowed just one run over seven solid innings. Boston desperately needed to win game three to put themselves back in the series.

           

Back in the bleachers for the 8:10 start, the atmosphere had a heightened sense of anticipation from the Division Series. During the regular season, Yankee games were always special events, and the crowd is fired up from the first pitch. In the postseason, this attitude was amplified. Knowing how important this game was, fans also were restless.  

           

When the Yankees started the game with three runs in the first off a Hideki Matsui home run, my heart sank into the pit of my stomach. This was turned around with the Sox scoring four in the second, with a little help from a Trot Nixon home run. Alex Rodriguez led off the third with another home run, and the Yankees scored two more runs in the inning. The Sox answered with two more runs of their own, and the game was tied at six after three innings.

At this point both starting pitchers were out of the game, now having to rely on their bullpens, benefitting from the extra day of rest from the rain. In this offensive slugfest, I could only wonder who was going to yield first. Which bullpen would step up and shut down the other team’s offense over the next six innings?

           

Unfortunately, it wasn’t the Red Sox. The Yankees scored another eleven runs, and the Sox were trounced in game three, 19-8. When the game was pretty much in hand, my dad and I said goodbyes to some of the fans sitting around us, and headed for the exit. Looking dejected, my father made one thing clear to me as we left the ballpark.

           

“I can’t come back here tomorrow and watch the Yankees sweep us. I just can’t.”

           

I could only nod my head in agreement. As much as we tried to remain optimistic, it was tough to shake the same old feeling that we’ve grown accustomed to. History was not on our side either. No team in Major League Baseball had ever come back from down 0-3 to win a playoff series. If the franchises’ past and Schilling’s injury was any indication, it looked like it was going to be the same old result for the Red Sox; they would suffer yet another humbling defeat at the hand of the New York Yankees.

Sunday, October 17, 2004

           

With little argument from me, my father gave the tickets for the game that night to my cousin. I was very content with sitting in my warm and comfortable living room and watching the game on television. Plus I shared the same sympathies with my dad; if the Red Sox lost, I didn’t want to be there in person to witness it.

           

Alan and I settled into our recliners and prepared for an evening strenuous television watching. The Sox were giving the ball to Derek Lowe in an attempt to salvage a win, while the Yankees were countering with the “El Duque” Orlando Hernandez and his high pitching leg kick.

           

Lowe pitched a decent game, lasting into the sixth and surrendering only three runs. El Duque was equally effective, also allowing three runs over five innings. With a 4-3 lead, the Yankees called upon Mariano Rivera once again in the eighth inning to earn a six out save. Rivera did his job in the eighth, and the Red Sox were down to their final three outs.

           

I was sitting on the edge of my chair, my heart in my throat as Kevin Millar made his way to the batter’s box to begin the ninth. The camera panned through the crowd at Fenway, showing faces of fans clasping hands in front of their faces, hoping for any sort of life from their team. Their prayers were answered when Millar drew a five pitch walk just as the clock struck midnight at Fenway. Cinderella wouldn’t be going home from the ball just yet.

           

As Bill Mueller approached the plate from the on deck circle, Dave Roberts came out of the dugout to pinch run for Kevin Millar. Roberts was a speedster, who stole thirty eight out of forty one bases during the regular season. Right away, he stretched out to a big lead off of first base.

Rivera threw over to first three times to draw Roberts back to the bag, but it didn’t matter.

           

“He’s going,” I said. We both knew it. Rivera knew it. Everyone at Fenway Park knew it.

           

When Rivera finally delivered to home plate, Roberts took off. The pitch was high and outside, but it was in the vicinity that Yankees’ catcher Jorge Posada could make a throw to second base.

           

In that split second, all I could think of was the worst. Roberts was going to be out, and the Sox were going to squander their first base runner of the inning on a stolen base attempt. I almost didn’t want to watch, but my eyes were seared to the television. I held my breath as the throw made its way to second.

           

Roberts slid on the right side of the bag as Derek Jeter covered the base. The throw was close, but Roberts was able to sneak his left hand on the base before the tag could be applied. Safe!

Fenway erupted. I let out a sigh of relief as I sank back in my chair.

On the very next pitch, Mueller drove a base hit right past Rivera up the middle into center field. Roberts was on his horse, and came around to score the tying run. Fenway exploded again as the Sox were back in the game.

At this point I was physically and emotionally exhausted, and wasn’t sure how much more drama I could take. But nobody was heading to the exits at Fenway, and I wasn’t about to call it quits either.

The Fenway Faithful were rewarded for their patience, and it was well worth the wait. In the bottom of the twelfth inning after a Manny Ramirez single, David Ortiz was the hero again, hitting a home run to right field. The Sox dugout emptied as Ortiz made his way around the bases, and Fenway erupted one last time. After five hours and playing into the wee hours of Monday, the Sox had forced another game that would be played later that night. And I needed to get some sleep.

Tuesday, October 19, 2004

The Sox had brought the series back to Yankee Stadium for game six. Game five was another marathon, clocking in at just less than six hours. It went into the fourteenth inning and required more late inning heroics by David Ortiz. After hitting a lead-off home run in the eighth inning to help tie the game at four, Ortiz singled up the middle in the fourteenth to score outfielder Johnny Damon and win the game 5-4. Big Papi was turning into Mr. Clutch, willing the Sox to victory when they needed it the most.

Game six was a different story though. It was announced that Curt Schilling would taking the mound for the Red Sox, even on his injured right ankle. He would be pitching with a torn tendon in his ankle, which was being held down by three stitches. Jon Lieber would once again be starting for the Yankees. Wild horses couldn’t have dragged me away from the television.

Alan and I assumed our same positions in the living room. It was a cold, raw night in the Bronx with a light mist in the air. Neither team scored a run through the first three innings, and Schilling looked like he was on his game.  In the fourth inning the Sox opened up for four runs with the help of a home run from second baseman Mark Bellhorn. They would hold on to win 4-2 to force a game seven.

The story of the night was Curt Schilling, who was simply masterful. When he took the mound in the first inning, blood was already seeping through his right sock, which the broadcast kept focusing on throughout the game. He allowed only one run through seven innings and silenced 55,000 New York Yankee fans. For me, it was the gutsiest performances by a Boston athlete since Larry Bird. The bloody sock, and the win, would be a part of Red Sox lore for many years to come.

Wednesday, October 20, 2004

Here we go again. For the second straight year, the Red Sox and Yankees would need a deciding game seven to determine who was going to win the American League Pennant. I couldn’t help but feel positive about the game. The momentum was all in the Red Sox favor, and I thought they had an edge in the pitching matchup. The Sox would be relying in Derek Lowe, who pitched well in game four. He would be facing Kevin Brown, who only lasted two innings in game three at Fenway.

Alan and I decided to head to Boston Billiards to meet some friends and to watch the game. Right down the street from Fenway, it was a great place to mingle with other fans that would have an animated atmosphere. We arrived there early enough that we were able to score a great seat in front of their big screen television. The main bar, shaped like a giant horseshoe, was right behind us. Past the bar was a giant room, lined with rows of pool tables. As the first pitch drew near, the tables and the standing room between our seats and the bar filled in all around us.

The game couldn’t have started any better. The Sox put two runs on the board in the first inning off of a David Ortiz home run. This was followed in the second by a grand slam to right field by Johnny Damon, who had been struggling at the plate throughout the series. The bar was in mayhem as the Sox took a 6-0 lead, and the level of confidence in the room jumped through the roof.

All I could do was revel in the enjoyment of the rest of the game. Derek Lowe pitched a gem at the right time, allowing only one run through six innings. Johnny Damon hit another two run home run in the fourth inning. The Sox not only beat the Yankees, but they embarrassed them. Fans in New York could only watch in disbelief as the Red Sox finally turned the tide on the Yankees, winning game seven 10-3. The Sox were finally making their way back to the World Series.

The celebration in the bar spilled out onto Brookline Avenue. We slowly maneuvered through the cheering crowd towards Fenway and Yawkey Way. All the other bars in the area were emptying out into the streets. Fans were climbing on top of cars, and some were even scaling light posts. Everyone was in unison enjoying the moment, and nobody was ready to go home.

           

Although the Sox still had four more World Series games to win, they finally did it. They passed the biggest hurdle of all, topping the mighty New York Yankees. What made it so special was the fashion they came back to win the series. I was ready to count them out, but the team never gave up. The accomplished the greatest comeback in sports history, and they were riding the momentum into the World Series.