Change-up Page 7

  “With a no-hitter?” Stevie repeated, still stunned at the thought that a pitcher who hadn’t given up a hit might come out of a game.

  “Yup,” Svrluga said. “With a no-hitter.”

  Stevie couldn’t believe it. Hideki Okajima came on in relief of Matsuzaka in the top of the eighth and retired the Nats in order. During the inning Stevie noticed two pitchers warming up in the Washington bullpen. But when the inning was over, Doyle popped out of the dugout and jogged to the mound. The small cadre of Nationals fans cheered when they saw him come back out. Apparently, they felt like Stevie: you don’t pull a pitcher who has a no-hitter going, even if it is the World Series.

  The stadium was buzzing with anticipation as Doyle threw his eight warm-up pitches. Under normal circumstances, Stevie and Susan Carol would have been trading comments and questions about what they were about to see. Stevie looked at Susan Carol. She was staring down at her scorecard as if it contained all of life’s secrets.

  Pedroia led off in the bottom of the eighth for the Red Sox. He took the first two pitches, one for a ball, the other a strike. “They’re trying to work the count on him,” Susan Carol said to no one and everyone. “They want to tire him out.”

  “He’s already tired,” Maske said.

  Pedroia didn’t take the next pitch. He hit a fly ball to right-center field, by far the deepest part of the ballpark. Elijah Dukes ranged almost to the warning track to make the catch.

  “He hits that anyplace else and it’s out,” Solomon said. “This guy needs to take a knee and run out the clock.”

  “That’s the beauty of baseball,” Svrluga said, rolling his eyes at another football reference. “There’s no clock.”

  David Ortiz walked to the plate. Stevie now understood why Acta might think about going to the bullpen. He didn’t think Doyle had much chance of getting Ortiz and Bay out one more time.

  The Red Sox fans were on their feet as Ortiz stepped in. It was pretty clear they had no interest in seeing a no-hitter. “Don’t fans sometimes get behind a pitcher on the other team going for a no-hitter?” Stevie asked.

  “Not in the World Series,” Svrluga said.

  Doyle’s first two pitches were nowhere near the plate. He had now thrown 117 pitches. Most starting pitchers came out after about 100 pitches, and the absolute maximum was usually 120. Stevie had checked the Nats’ postseason media guide and found that the most pitches Doyle had thrown in his three starts in September was 87.

  On 2–0, Doyle tried to trick Ortiz, who was no doubt expecting a fastball, with a curve. But the pitch never broke down and away, as it should have. Instead it stayed up and went right at Ortiz. At the last second Ortiz realized the breaking pitch had no break, and he tried to duck out of the way. But the ball somehow hit his bat and trickled straight back to the mound. Ortiz was still lying on his back when Doyle picked the ball up and threw it to first.

  “Oh my God,” Solomon said. “Talk about a Hail Mary!”

  “Talk about dumb luck,” Svrluga said. “That may be it for Doyle.”

  Acta was walking to the mound. Even though Doyle had gotten two outs in the inning, it was clear he was exhausted. The breaking ball that didn’t break had to be the last straw.

  The entire Nats infield surrounded the mound while Acta talked to Doyle. “No signal to the bullpen yet,” Susan Carol said.

  “Good point,” Maske said. “I would have thought he’d be waving someone in when he left the dugout.”

  And then Acta patted Doyle on the shoulder and trotted back to the dugout.

  “Oh ma God,” Susan Carol said, lapsing into a Southern drawl. “He’s stayin’ in.”

  “Acta’s either going down as the gutsiest manager in series history or the dumbest,” Svrluga said. “There is no way this guy can get four more outs.”

  Bay dug in to the batter’s box. He had joined the team in 2008 to replace Manny Ramirez, the enigmatic slugger who had thrilled and mystified Boston fans—not to mention teammates—with his bat and his antics for almost eight years. It was a hard act to follow, but Bay had become an instant fan favorite and had played well from the first day he arrived in Boston.

  Doyle threw a fastball that was outside. Then he threw three more just like it.

  “That was an intentional walk,” Svrluga said. “No way was he giving him any kind of pitch to hit.”

  Mike Lowell, the third baseman, was up next. He had been the MVP of the World Series in ’07. Doyle’s first pitch was an 80-mph fastball right down the middle. Lowell never moved.

  “He surprised him by throwing a strike,” Maske commented.

  The next pitch was also a strike, and Lowell hit a bullet toward the left-field wall—the Green Monster. It was hit so hard it looked like it might go through the wall. But it never rose above shoulder level. Dunn, the Nats’ left fielder, had been playing almost on the warning track, so he took one step to his left and put up his glove, and the ball slammed into it. The groan from the fans was audible.

  “That may have been the luckiest inning I’ve ever seen a pitcher have,” Stevie said.

  “You need luck to pitch a no-hitter,” Susan Carol answered.

  “He’s going to need a miracle to get three more outs,” Maske said.

  No one argued. Terry Francona brought his closer, Jonathan Papelbon, in to pitch the ninth—he wanted to be sure the margin stayed at 1–0 so they’d have a final shot at winning in the bottom of the inning.

  Papelbon rolled through the Nationals, throwing only nine pitches to set them down one-two-three.

  Acta was really letting Doyle try to finish the no-hitter. Doyle walked slowly to the mound for the bottom of the ninth. Stevie noticed his warm-up pitches weren’t much more than lobs to the plate. He was clearly saving his strength. He had now thrown 124 pitches. The temperature had dropped since game time, and Stevie felt chilled as he watched Jason Varitek, the Red Sox’s catcher, walk to the plate.

  Doyle rocked and threw his first pitch to Varitek. It was, Stevie noticed on the scoreboard a moment later, a 79-mph fastball. Varitek jumped on it, and it was clear the moment it left the bat that Doyle’s luck had finally run out. The ball screamed toward the gap in right-center field. As soon as it landed between Dukes and right fielder Austin Kearns, the crowd roared. By the time Dukes ran the ball down and got it back to the infield, Varitek was standing on third and Stevie could feel the park literally rocking underneath his feet.

  “He threw into coverage once too often,” Solomon said.

  Acta was walking slowly to the mound. The no-hitter now gone, he instantly waved to the bullpen for his closer, Joel Hanrahan.

  “Probably too late,” Svrluga said as Hanrahan began to jog in. “Best-case scenario, they hold them to one run here and get the game to extra innings.”

  Doyle had opted to wait on the mound until Hanrahan arrived, instead of leaving right away the way most pitchers did when coming out of a game. When Hanrahan walked onto the mound, he handed him the ball, said something, and began walking off the mound. As he did, the entire stadium stood and cheered.

  “At least the Red Sox fans appreciate the effort,” Susan Carol said.

  “Now they do,” Stevie said, feeling very sad for Doyle and the Nats. “Now it’s okay because they’re about to tie the game.”

  Doyle received handshakes and hugs all around in the Nationals dugout. Hanrahan finished his warm-up pitches and looked in at J.D. Drew, the Red Sox right fielder.

  Drew had power, although it was more the line-drive-double type of power than home-run power. The Nationals moved the infield in, positioning all four of them on the grass so that they could throw home to try to get Varitek out on a ground ball and keep the Red Sox from tying the game.

  “No pinch runner for Varitek?” Susan Carol asked. “Wouldn’t they want more speed at third base?”

  “They’re thinking if they tie it, they don’t want their starting catcher on the bench in extra innings,” Svrluga said.

  “Team t
hat wins the toss usually wins in overtime,” Solomon said, causing everyone to look at him as if he were from Mars.

  Hanrahan looked in for a sign and threw a strike, Drew taking all the way. The next pitch produced a ground ball right at third baseman Ryan Zimmerman. He scooped it on a short hop, glared at Varitek for a second, as if daring him to leave third base, then threw across the diamond to get Drew out at first by a step.

  “Still alive,” Susan Carol said softly.

  Stevie realized that he was also relieved to see the lead still intact. He had been so caught up throughout the game thinking about what was going on with Susan Carol that he had almost lost track of the fact that he might be witnessing history. Now, with the no-hitter gone, he wanted very much to see Doyle at least get the win and to see the Nationals even the series at one game apiece.

  Red Sox manager Terry Francona had decided to go to his bench, bringing up Julio Lugo to pinch-hit for shortstop Nick Green.

  The whole stadium was standing now, wanting Lugo to at least get the tying run in with less than two outs. Hanrahan, knowing that Lugo had home-run power, worked carefully, falling behind 2–1 before Lugo fouled a pitch off with a vicious swing.

  “He just missed hitting that pitch a long way,” Maske said.

  Hanrahan was like most relief pitchers in that he never used a windup, just pitching out of the stretch because he often came in with runners on base. Now he stretched and threw again.

  Lugo reached out for the pitch and hit a fly ball to right field. It wasn’t deep, but it wasn’t shallow. Austin Kearns took a step back and then came in to make the catch, clearly trying to get himself in position to make a throw to home plate. Varitek tagged up, Kearns made the catch, and Varitek took off for home.

  “This is going to be close,” Stevie heard Susan Carol say, even over the din of the crowd.

  Kearns’s throw was strong but just a little bit off-line on the first-base side of the plate. Varitek started to slide as the ball was arriving, and Nationals catcher Wil Nieves grabbed the ball out of the air and dove back in, trying to get the ball on Varitek before Varitek got to the plate.

  Varitek, Nieves, and the ball—in Nieves’s glove—appeared to arrive all at the same moment. Nieves landed almost on top of Varitek’s legs, applying a tag as Varitek slid into home. Plate umpire John Hirschbeck stared at the two men for a moment, then pointed at Nieves’s glove, which he was holding in the air to show that he still had the ball. Hirschbeck’s arm came up in the air, and Stevie thought he heard him say, “You’re out!” even though he couldn’t possibly have heard him from so far away in the cauldron of noise. Nevertheless, the arm raised in the air was enough. It was a double play. Varitek was out. The game was over. Somehow the Nationals had won, 1–0.

  As soon as Hirschbeck gave the out call, Susan Carol jumped from her seat, yelling, “They did it, they did it!”

  Stevie had also jumped from his seat and, instinctively, he turned to hug Susan Carol. She did the same thing. Then, almost in midhug, they both stopped, awkwardly pushing back from one another.

  The reaction of the other writers around them was considerably more subdued: they were clearly surprised by the sudden ending but not emotional. Stevie had covered enough sporting events to know that journalists taught themselves to try not to show emotion even if they felt it.

  Seeing that she and Stevie were the only ones who appeared excited, Susan Carol calmed down quickly. “That was an amazing game,” she said, as if defending herself.

  “Yes, it was,” Stevie said, trying to sound cool and restrained—even though he didn’t feel the least bit cool.

  Then they gathered up their notebooks and followed everyone else in the direction of the clubhouses.

  9: SILENT TREATMENT

  IT TOOK SEVERAL MINUTES to make their way through the crowds to the locker room area, which, unlike in the newer ballparks, was not on a separate level where there was no public access. The media had to stand against a wall so that fans could pass by on their way out of the ballpark.

  As planned, Stevie went first to the interview room to meet Bobby Kelleher and the other Herald staffers at the game. They would discuss their postgame plans—who would write which stories. There wasn’t much doubt what the story of the game was: Norbert Doyle.

  Kelleher, who had taken the elevator from the main press box along with Nationals beat writer Doug Doughty, was waiting in the back of the room when Stevie walked in. Susan Carol had gone to wait outside the Nationals clubhouse, having already talked to Tamara Mearns by cell phone.

  “Nice of Doyle to turn what was a decent news story into a made-for-TV movie, wasn’t it?” Kelleher said when he spotted Stevie.

  “What happens with my story now?” Stevie asked, then realized he was being selfish thinking about that first.

  “Good question, actually,” Kelleher said. “I already talked to the desk. They’re going to insert a couple of paragraphs up high about how Doyle pitched tonight, but leave most of the game description for the game story and my column.” He smiled. “There is one other change.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The story was inside the Sports section for the early edition. Next edition it’s on the front page.”

  “Of the Sports section, right?”

  “Of the newspaper,” Kelleher said. “You did it again, kid.”

  Stevie felt good about that, although he knew he’d backed into the A1 story. Still, like Doyle in the eighth inning, he didn’t mind catching a break or two.

  “So what’s my sidebar now?” he said, hearing a microphone being tested in the background. Deadline was closing in.

  “Wil Nieves,” Kelleher said. “He’s a good story in himself—journeyman catcher, up and down from the minors his whole life. He was Mike Mussina’s personal catcher for a while in ’07. Doyle pitches kind of like Mussina—changes speeds, good control, doesn’t throw hard. Plus, Wil’s a good guy. You may have to wait him out a little bit, though, because a lot of people are going to want to talk to him about the last play at the plate.”

  “And you’ll do Doyle?”

  Kelleher grunted. “Everybody will be doing Doyle,” he said. “He’ll come in here first, which will be okay. It will be a mob scene when he goes back to that tiny clubhouse and all the columnists want to talk to him some more.”

  “Columnists like you?”

  “Yup. This guy is now officially the story of this World Series—maybe even if he never throws another pitch.”

  “He’ll pitch again after tonight, won’t he?”

  “Oh, he’ll pitch game six or game seven,” Kelleher said. “But there’s no guarantee there will be a game six or a game seven. Who knows? Maybe the Nats will win in five.”

  Now that, Stevie thought, would be a storybook ending.

  Assignment in hand, Stevie made his way back down the hallway in the direction of the Nationals clubhouse. He couldn’t help but notice how quiet the walkway under the third-base stands was—especially when compared with the night before, when the Red Sox fans had been celebrating winning game one.

  He wasn’t the only one who noticed. “The silence is deafening, isn’t it?” said Jeff Arnold, another writer for the Herald. His assignment was to talk to Austin Kearns about his throw on the last play.

  “I guess they’re surprised,” Stevie said as they fell into the back of the media line waiting to get into the clubhouse.

  “Not surprised, stunned,” Arnold said. “It’s funny how things change. Once, Red Sox fans expected disaster in October. But they’ve gotten used to winning now. This is the first time they’ve lost a World Series game since 1986.”

  Stevie hadn’t thought about it that way. The Red Sox had swept the World Series in both 2004 and 2007 and had won the opener in this one. There had been years when they weren’t in the Series, but lately, when they got there, they were unbeatable.

  The line was barely moving in the direction of the door. “Why is it so slow?” Stevie said. “I
t only took a few minutes to get into the Sox clubhouse last night.”

  “The security guy on the visiting clubhouse here is a real pain in the neck,” Arnold said. “He looks at every pass as if it must be fake, does everything but ask your blood type. I guarantee he’ll give you a hard time.”

  Stevie shrugged. Security guards never seemed to believe someone his age could actually be accredited to cover events like the Final Four and the U.S. Open tennis tournament. He steeled himself as he followed Arnold to the clubhouse door, which was blocked by a burly man who was—as Arnold had predicted—checking every pass as if the secret to happiness were written there in code.

  Arnold survived inspection and stopped just inside the door. “What are you waiting for?” the guard snarled, looking over his shoulder while Stevie waited for his inspection.

  “The young man there and I are partners,” Arnold said. “I’m waiting on him.”

  The guard turned back toward Stevie, grabbed his pass—which was around his neck—looked at it, and then looked back at Stevie.

  “How old are you?” he asked in an accusatory tone. Stevie wanted to ask if he questioned the age of everyone who walked through the door, but he took the easy way out instead and just said, “I’m fourteen.”

  “Fourteen and you have a press pass? How’d that happen?”

  That probably warranted a wise-guy answer, but he heard a voice behind him saying, “He’s got a press pass because he’s a first-rate reporter, Bill. And if you paid any attention to anything except proving you’re in charge here for fifteen minutes a night, you’d know who he is.”

  Stevie looked behind him and saw Bob Ryan, the Boston Globe’s star columnist. Given the guard’s bullying attitude, Stevie thought Ryan was taking a major chance standing up for him. Then again, this was Boston, and he was Bob Ryan.

  “I really don’t need you giving me a hard time here, Bob,” Bill said, but the snarl was gone from his voice.