Division Series Game 1
In the VIP box at Fenway Park—tucked away in its most secluded corner—three men sat watching the game.
Yankees owner John Edvine, his secretary, and General Manager Chris McHale had come to take in today's contest. Even though the game was still underway, none of them looked particularly pleased.
The reason was obvious enough: the Yankees were getting thoroughly dismantled.
It was the owner himself, John Edvine, who finally broke the heavy silence.
"Well? How are the talks going?"
He didn't even glance over as he asked.
"We've made contact," came the answer from Chris McHale, seated beside him and watching the same game.
There had been no subject, no context—yet McHale knew exactly what he meant and answered at once.
"Is that so? And what did they say?"
"Well… that agent of his, Jack, is a bit of a tough customer…"
"…"
Seeing the owner's face twist ever so slightly, McHale hurried on.
"But the first conversation went well! We made it very clear how badly we want the player, and…"
"That's it?"
"We told them we'd give him the absolute best treatment!"
"And?"
"W-well, for now… he said we'd talk after this series is over and he gets back from the Asian Games."
"So in the end, you got nothing."
"His contract with the Red Sox is up next year anyway. We're prepared to offer terms the Red Sox couldn't possibly match, so…"
John Edvine gave no reply—just a slow, measured nod.
The GM was still squirming under that silent stare when—
CRACK!
"Hah… he hit another one. Gone again. Unbelievable."
"…"
"If our general manager hadn't been so stubbornly pigheaded, that player might be wearing our uniform right now… and instead of waiting two more years, I might have been watching a championship this season."
"B-but…"
"Enough. We're leaving. This year's a wash."
As if there was nothing left worth seeing, John Edvine rose and followed his secretary out.
"Damn it all. This is driving me crazy. Will money even work? I don't think it will…"
Scrambling after his departing boss, the general manager was beginning to understand just how little time he had left in the job.
"Wouldn't it be better if I just finished this one myself today? No reason to burn the bullpen in a game like this, right?"
That was my answer when Grandpa Manager asked whether I should come out.
Honestly, it made perfect sense.
The seventh was winding down and the score was already 8–0. The game was over. All that was left was to lock down two more innings for the win—so why waste bullpen arms?
My stamina wasn't exactly overflowing, but it was still better than most people's, and my recovery was in a completely different league. Besides, Rondo was starting tomorrow, and lately he'd been looking a little gassed. He could hold things together through about ninety pitches, but past that the strain showed. Call it six innings, then a handoff.
John Greinsky, lined up for the game after that, held up a bit better than Rondo—but he wasn't a complete-game guy either. Meaning both of the next two nights would need the bullpen. So if I just shut this one down myself, it'd make the whole pitching plan a lot cleaner.
But—
"The preparations are already done. You've still got to hit tomorrow. No reason to push it. What, you don't trust them? Nervous about an eight-run lead?"
"…"
That was a trap. Who throws a loaded question like that?
If I said yes here, what would the rest of the guys think? The answer was already decided.
"No, sir. That's not it. I just figured it'd be better to save the bullpen than burn it…"
"Karl Pollard's taking over behind you."
"…Yes, sir."
And that was the end of my outing for the day.
Karl Pollard was the guy who'd clawed his way into our fifth-starter spot and held it. Plenty of arms had taken a run at that job since the start of the season, and he'd been the one left standing. He wasn't going to start in a short series like this, and he wasn't quite a Winning Setup Relief piece either—so situations like this were exactly when you wanted him.
I headed in for icing, and by the time I came back it was the bottom of the eighth. Karl Pollard was already on the mound, dealing.
Crack.
A single dropped in front of Ernie Witt. The runner on second tore for home. Ernie fired it in, but the throw skipped just wide—safe. Score: 8–2.
"…What the hell is this."
I'd been gone for a few minutes of icing and already the offense was done, and we'd given up two runs without recording a single out? What on earth had happened that fast?
Crack.
Thankfully the next ball went high—out. But then a walk and another hit, and just like that it was 8–3.
"Maybe I should've just insisted on finishing it myself."
Only now did the pitching coach finally visit the mound. From the snatches of conversation I caught, it sounded like someone in the bullpen had just started getting loose. If they were only starting now, they'd need time—which explained why the coach was out there stalling.
Still, the visit seemed to settle Pollard a little. He managed to get the second out.
And then Marcus Kiddler stepped in—the Yankees' cleanup hitter. He hadn't collected a hit all day, but you don't buy the four-hole in that lineup with pocket change. We needed to be careful—
CRAAACK!!!
"…You've got to be kidding me."
An eight-run lead had become a two-run lead, and the miracle was unfolding right there in the eighth.
The pitching coach went back out to the mound one more time.
Karl Pollard trudged in with his head hanging, handing the ball over on his way to the dugout. Eric, who'd been behind the plate in the mask, had to come in with him. Eric covered his face with both hands and let out a long, heavy breath. I didn't know what to say, so I just clapped him on the shoulder a couple of times.
Part of me wanted to smack him upside the head and demand what the hell that last pitch was supposed to be.
Yua took the mound. Gordon Perry strapped on the mask, and the game resumed.
Crack.
"Out."
Two pitches. Just two pitches—a grounder to second—and Yua was walking off the hill.
Top of the ninth. The Yankees must have figured they still had a shot, because they brought in their setup man, Luis Moham. His two-seam–cutter mix carved through us for three quick outs.
Bottom of the ninth. Back onto the mound went Yua, the same guy who'd thrown all of two pitches in the eighth.
"Please…"
Eric had his hands clasped like he was praying. This was probably the biggest game of his career. He'd steered a shutout through seven innings, then given up six in the eighth and gotten pulled. My stomach was in knots just watching—I couldn't imagine how he felt living it.
"That guy's completely checked out."
Karl Pollard, the one who'd actually thrown the pitches, looked even worse. His eyes had gone completely dead-fish blank.
Crack.
Yua fed the leadoff hitter three straight forkballs and finally got the out. The ball was a little deep toward third, but Alan Thomas snagged it cleanly—one away.
Against the next batter he flipped the script, firing three straight four-seamers and inducing a grounder to second for another out.
Two down. One more and Game One was ours.
But of course, that's always when the unexpected shows up.
Thud.
A pitch working inside ran a little too deep and clipped the batter on the thigh. Runner on. Grandpa Manager heaved his heavy frame up, climbed the mound, took the ball from Yua, and waited for whoever was coming out of the bullpen.
Naturally I figured it'd be our closer, Kyle Biggio…
BLAKE BUXTON!
So why was that chatterbox striding onto the mound like he owned the place?
"Guess Biggio's not feeling it," Eric croaked in a half-dead voice, answering the question I hadn't asked.
"That guy better throw well…"
Buxton was beaming. Apparently just being out there to close a game like this was pure joy. Through his talk with the manager, through his warm-up tosses—the smile never left his face. I had never trusted a human being less in my life.
And then, out of nowhere, he jabbed a finger at the sky. The muttering I was used to—he did that every outing—but the finger-pointing was new.
"Just throw the damn ball… and cut the weird stuff."
At last Buxton's little ritual ended, and he delivered the first pitch.
CRACK!
"Shit! No! Catch it. Catch it!"
The leadoff swing sent the ball screaming toward left. Ernie Witt tore after it like a madman. He'd been playing the lower half of the order a step in, so he had to scramble. For a second it looked like the ball was going to sail right over him. I was already bracing for the game to get a whole lot harder—
Then Ernie Witt's body left the ground.
And then Ernie Witt's body slammed into the dirt without mercy.
"What? What happened?"
I couldn't see the ball. Which meant it had either cleared the wall or been caught. There was a giant wall out there, so over the fence was out of the question.
So that left—
A roar of pure, unintelligible noise exploded from the stands.
Ernie Witt's glove was thrust high. He pushed himself up off the ground and pulled the ball out of the leather.
"Out!"