Chapter 18: On the Road Again

There were 14 games left in the regular season, and ten of ours were on the road. Not good. Of course, we had stunk up Camden Yards pretty regularly lately, so maybe some foreign air would do us good.

We had four more in Tampa Bay, then back home to Baltimore briefly to entertain Toronto for four games, and then on the road again, winding up the season in New York and Boston -- three games each.

Tampa Bay, perhaps dispirited by their collapse in the second half, laid down and died for us, four straight. Meanwhile, Toronto lost three of four in Yankee Stadium, so our four wins gained us only a half-game on the first-place Yankees.

We split the first two in New York in a couple of classic games that were as tense as any post-season contest you'd ever want to see. Win or lose, this year the Yankees would have to look south toward Baltimore, instead of north toward Boston, to contemplate their principal competitor.

We needed the third and final game in Yankee Stadium in order to leave town in first place by half a game. While we were playing Boston, the Yanks would be in Tampa -- most likely whipping up on the hapless Devil Rays.

Sam Bailey started for us and gave up eight hits and three walks in seven innings -- but only one run. We managed two runs over that stretch and led going into the bottom of the eighth.

But with only one out in the eighth, Bailey put two on and our one-run lead started looking real precarious. The next Yankee hitter was that same right-handed kid who had launched one off me into deep left in Baltimore.

Paul went out to get Bailey and signaled the bullpen for -- me.

What the fuck? Paul was pulling Bailey and bringing me -- a left-hander, to pitch to the Yankee's new guy. It didn't make any sense! Was I being set up to fail?

When I got to the mound, my questioning expression must have been pretty obvious. "Take off your shoe," Paul said.

"Take off my..."

"Just take off your fucking shoe!" he hissed, "so I'll have time to talk to you."

I took off my shoe and slowly picked at several imaginary rocks stuck to my stocking.

"Listen," Paul said, "I know this guy is right-handed, but he's not normal. He hits righties better than lefties, and he gets tied in knots against lefty junk-ballers like you!"

"He creamed me in Baltimore."

"Forget it!" Paul demanded. "Even a stopped clock is right, twice a day. I'm telling you, this rookie can not hit your stuff! He cannot! His record proves it. It's not a fucking hunch, it's a fact!"

"What if this is the second time?" I asked.

The plate umpire was coming out to see what accounted for the delay.

"Second time?" Paul said. "What are you talking about?"

"You said 'even a stopped clock is right twice a day.' Well -- He's already gotten me -- once."

"We're doing probabilities, here, Alex! And I say the probability is, you're gonna get this fucker out! Now, goddamnit, get him!"

Right or wrong, at least I now knew why I was out there pitching, and I now knew why I'd been left in against this kid, back in Baltimore. If Paul said I could get him, well, fuck, I figured I could get him.

I did. It wasn't even hard. I knew that as soon as it got around the league that this dude couldn't hit breaking stuff off lefties, he'd be gone and forgotten. Felt kinda sorry for him. Maybe he'd get better.

I hoped he would. Next year.

I stayed in to retire one more batter in the eighth and briefly entertained thoughts of hanging around for the ninth-inning heroics. I could be a closer! I felt up to it, if "Dad" thought I was.

He didn't. But Freddie Gonzalez put them down in the ninth and we left town back in first place.

I loved to play in Boston. It was kinda the ideal place for someone whose life was baseball. The Red Sox were out of the Eastern Division race for the season, and by then they had fallen out of the Wild Card competition as well.