Leaving No Hope for the Dodgers

Everyone thought the same thing.

This World Series was going to end fast.

After the Red Sox clawed out a comeback win in Game 3, people figured the series was already over.

And with Jim Tomey taking the mound for Game 4—after how dominant he had been through the Division Series and Championship Series—the expectations only climbed higher.

The Dodgers, meanwhile, were sending out Mike Weathers. The same guy who had gotten knocked out early in Game 1 and handed Los Angeles a miserable start to the Fall Classic.

Maybe we got too comfortable.

Maybe we already had the trophy locked in our heads ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠and that was the problem…

To be fair, the guy’s stuff was a lot sharper than it had been in Game 1.

Our guy Jim Tomey, on the other hand, was nothing like the force he had been in the previous two series.

Even though the Dodgers had lost the day before, their bats had started to wake up—and Jim simply could not keep them in check. He was pulled before the fifth inning was even finished.

Final score: 9-2.

Series score: 3-1.

Rondo took the mound for Game 5.

And Gordon Perry—who had been listed with a “minor” injury but had still missed three straight games—was back behind the plate as the starting catcher.

Rondo threw well, the way he always did. Combined with Gordon Perry’s veteran game-calling, they kept turning the Dodgers’ lineup over one after another.

But Neil Werther, starting for Los Angeles, was a different animal than the one we had faced in Game 2.

Instead of leaving pitches over the heart of the plate the way he had last time, he was painting every corner with a 98-mph four-seamer that made our hitters miserable. And that changeup of his was even tougher to time than we remembered.

When Rondo recorded the final out of the seventh, the score was still 0-0. Neither team had touched home plate. The game was handed over to the bullpens.

Yua took the ball in the eighth.

Katsuma Yua had done everything asked of him all series long.

CRACK!!

Andre Mays turned a well-located forkball into a home run and dropped Yua to his knees on the mound.

Top of the ninth.

Avery Robson—the same closer who had given up the go-ahead blast to me in Game 3—came in and threw nothing but sinkers. Eight of them. Game over.

We dropped Game 5 as well and had to pack up for the flight back to Boston.

"How’s the arm?"

"Good enough. Good enough to end this World Series tonight."

"Heh. Perfect. I was starting to get bored. Let’s finish it today."

"OK."

Gordon Perry, who would be catching me in Game 6, grinned and headed off to talk to someone else.

The Dodgers were starting Dennis McQueen.

He had thrown a solid outing against us in Game 3—not a complete lockdown, but enough different pitches with enough deception that he nearly walked away with the win. If my three-run homer hadn’t shown up at the end, he really would have been the winning pitcher.

That was why the Dodgers fans were showing up with real hope again. After the reverse loss in Game 3 they had looked ready to quit; now the visiting section was packed.

"Too bad for them…"

I had zero intention of losing tonight.

Hell, I had zero intention of even giving up a run.

Because I was finally going to use the thing I had been holding back all this time. The Booster I had been saving. I was going to take it before the game and leave the Dodgers without even a sliver of hope.

"Where you going?"

"Bathroom."

"You’re supposed to be on the mound any second."

"Be right back."

Just like the first time I ever used a Booster, I slipped off to the bathroom right before first pitch. The one good break was that Alan Thomas didn’t trail after me this time. I got to hide in peace, pop the Booster, and walk back out.

"Hmm…"

The second I stepped onto the mound and gripped the ball, I could feel the stuff kicking in. The ball sat in my hand like it belonged there.

"Play ball."

The pregame ceremonies ended, the batter stepped in, and the umpire called for the start of the game.

Gordon Perry’s mitt opened right down the middle. No sign. Just the bare target. I already knew what he wanted. We had done this a thousand times.

The ball left my fingertips and screamed into Gordon Perry’s glove.

It was dead center, and the hitter never even twitched. He just stood there staring as it exploded into the mitt.

POP!!!

"…S-strike."

I spun around and checked the scoreboard the same instant everyone else in the ballpark did.

108 mph.

"Not bad."

I liked the start.

POP!

POP!

After the 108-mph four-seamer I dropped a changeup more than thirty miles an hour slower, then came back with a slider that jumped twenty-plus miles an hour again. The bat flailed through empty air for the first strikeout of the night.

Same recipe for the next guy: four-seamer to set the table, changeup to steal the timing, slider to finish him. Two straight three-pitch strikeouts and the crowd noise rolled over Fenway like a wave.

Then the hero of last night’s game—Andre Mays—stepped into the box.

"There he is."

The one hitter who had made me decide I absolutely needed the Booster tonight. The only real obstacle standing between me and a complete shutout of Dodger hope in Game 6 of the World Series.

I planned to bury Andre Mays in this first at-bat. Completely.

POP!!

108 mph.

POP!!

108 again.

Two consecutive lasers painted the inside and outside edges for called strikes. Unlike the earlier hitters, this one had been trying to muscle the ball, and now a flicker of surprise crossed his face as he stepped out of the box.

"Get back in there… I’ve still got one more for you."

Andre Mays took a couple of practice cuts outside the box until the umpire waved him back in.

I wound up slower than usual. I wrung every last drop of force out of a bigger delivery than normal and put everything I had into the pitch.

POP!!!

"Batter—out!"

A 109-mph four-seam fastball right down the middle.

Looking strike three on one of the best hitters in the National League. The final pitch of an Immaculate Inning.

Before the game I had a short talk with the old man—our manager.

He was still fretting over where to put me in the order. I told him two-hole felt right. Higher up the lineup always suited me better than lower, and tonight especially I wanted the top. More chances to hit.

He just nodded without a word.

So once again my name went into the two-spot.

Arthur Burgart worked Dennis McQueen over, fouling off pitch after pitch and grinding the at-bat. He knew the guy threw a fastball slower than league average, so he sat on the off-speed and kept punching it foul. Eventually the eighth pitch—a sharp-breaking curve—got him swinging, but he had done his job. Eight pitches seen.

I stepped in after watching all eight of them.

Last time we faced this guy I hadn’t had much fun. That curve that seemed to fall off a table right in front of my eyes had gotten me a little tangled up. Sure, I still finished that game with a go-ahead three-run shot, but still…

Tonight was different.

I was running the cheat codes.

I could see exactly what he was throwing and where, and the pitcher was slow to begin with?

CRACK!!!

Anything in the zone was gone.