Change-up (8 page)

“I guess you’re more of a football guy,” Stevie had said after the last football reference.

“Love baseball,” Solomon said. Even so, he had spent
chunks of the game asking Barry Svrluga, another
Post
reporter who normally covered the Redskins, what he thought about that Sunday’s game in Green Bay.

“Congratulations,” Solomon said as Stevie sat down for the start of game two. “Good story on Doyle this afternoon. There was some good spadework there.”

Stevie had now been around reporters enough to know that
spadework
was a term that meant someone had done a lot of digging to get a story. The truth was the story had landed in his lap while he was eating breakfast. But he just said, “Thanks. Sometimes you get lucky.”

“Based on past history,” Solomon said, “you and the young lady are more than lucky.”

Susan Carol was, at that moment, engaged in conversation with Mark Maske, another
Post
football writer who had been assigned to the World Series. Mearns had mentioned earlier that the
Post
had a total of twenty-two people in Boston—fifteen sportswriters, two editors, three photographers, a writer from the Style section, and a writer from the Metro section who was assigned to write one of those awful stories on fans. The
Herald
“only” had sixteen people in town—including its own Metro reporter, who was doing what Stevie assumed would be an equally awful story on fans.

He was extremely grateful that he didn’t have to wander the streets or the ballpark looking for people who had painted their faces Nats red and blue. Look at the glass as half full, he told himself, even though it felt quite empty at that moment.

The Nats managed to score a run in the top of the first off Matsuzaka when leadoff hitter Austin Kearns singled, took second on a wild pitch, moved to third on a groundout, and then scored on another groundout by Ryan Zimmerman.

“Guess the Red Sox figure they’re going to score off Doyle, so they can play the infield back,” Stevie said to Susan Carol, figuring he’d be safe keeping the conversation on baseball.

“You never play the infield in this early in the game, no matter who’s pitching,” she snapped. “You should know that.”

So much, Stevie thought, for casual baseball talk.

Doyle trotted to the mound to some applause—Stevie guessed it was from the Nats fans scattered throughout the crowd—and a low murmur. Most of the Red Sox fans had apparently not been paying attention when the line-ups were announced, and when they saw an unfamiliar number—56—trot to the mound, they wondered who in the world it was.

Doyle was clearly nervous at the start. He walked Kevin Youkilis on four pitches to start the game and then hit Dustin Pedroia with a pitch. Whatever Stevie’s thoughts were on David Doyle and Susan Carol, he didn’t want to see Norbert Doyle humiliated in front of millions of people. As David Ortiz stepped into the batter’s box and Jason Bay stood on deck, Stevie did a little math: two men on, no one out, postseason baseball’s best clutch hitter up, with another one-hundred-plus RBI man to
follow. Stevie wondered if Doyle would survive the first inning.

Everyone in the ballpark was on their feet as Ortiz stared in at Doyle. He was now thirty-four, and starting to slow a little bit: he had “only” hit twenty-nine home runs during the regular season. In postseason—Big Papi time, as it was called in Boston—he already had five home runs and fifteen RBIs.

“This could get ugly in a hurry,” Stevie said.

Susan Carol said nothing. Stevie was having about as good a night so far as Norbert Doyle.

Doyle threw three straight pitches that were way out of the strike zone. They almost reminded Stevie of the scene in
Major League
when Charlie Sheen’s character, Wild Thing, comes into his first game and immediately throws a pitch that goes straight to the backstop, causing Bob Uecker, playing the radio announcer, to say,
“Just
a bit outside.”

These pitches were nearly as far outside.

Ortiz dug in, knowing that Doyle had to try to throw a strike rather than face loading the bases for Bay.

“I’ll bet he’s got the hit sign,” George Solomon said. “Might as well go for the long pass right here.”

Stevie figured that was a lock. On 3–0, Doyle was likely to groove a fastball, and Ortiz might hit it nine miles.

Sure enough, Ortiz was swinging on 3–0. Doyle’s fastball looked right down the middle to Stevie, but instead of hitting it nine miles, Ortiz hit a wicked grounder right down the third-base line. For a moment Stevie thought it
was going into the corner for a double. But Zimmerman, who hadn’t overshifted because of the runner on second, somehow stabbed it on his backhand side and in one motion stepped on third base and flicked a throw to second. Ronnie Belliard, the Nats’ second baseman, grabbed the throw and then turned and fired to first. The stunned—not to mention painfully slow—Ortiz was still two steps from the bag when the throw hit the first baseman’s glove.

For a second Stevie didn’t even realize what had happened. Then, all at once, he noticed how quiet the ballpark had suddenly become, and he heard Susan Carol’s voice very clearly saying, “A triple play, oh my God, a triple play!”

It was, in fact, the rarest play in baseball—three outs on one play. This one had been amazingly simple because Ortiz had hit the ball so hard. It got to Zimmerman so quickly it was actually an easy around-the-horn play from third to second to first.

Stevie had never seen a triple play in his life. The Nationals high-fived one another as they jogged off the field. Doyle just put his head down and walked off as if it had been routine.

“Unless my memory fails me, that’s the first triple play in the World Series since Bill Wambsganss,” George Solomon said. “Of course, I’m more a football guy than a baseball guy.”

“No, you’ve got it right,” Svrluga said. “It was 1920. Unassisted.”

“Unassisted?” Stevie said. “You mean he got all three outs by himself? How’s that possible?”

“Easy,” Svrluga said. “He was playing second base. Men on first and second, no one out—just like this play. Except he caught a line drive hit right at him. He ran over, touched second base to force out the runner who’d been on second. The runner at first hadn’t realized he’d caught the ball and ran right into his tag. It was almost easy, it happened so fast.”

“How do you know?” asked Maske.

“Saw the replay on
SportsCenter,”
Svrluga answered with a straight face.

“Pretty good break for your new friend’s dad,” Stevie whispered to Susan Carol while the discussion of Wambsganss and triple plays continued.

“Stop it, Stevie,” she said quietly. “Don’t be a jerk.”

“I’m
a jerk?” he said, looking around to make sure no one was paying attention. “I’m not the one who sneaked off today, lied about it, and is now acting as if she’s protecting national security with some big secret.”

“Stop it,” she said. “Stop saying things you’ll be sorry you said later.”

Stevie started to say something else but realized she might be right.

“Fine,” he said. “But it better be damn good, whatever it is.”

“Don’t threaten me, Stevie,” she said. “You’re not my father.”

“I know that,” Stevie said. “I thought I was your boyfriend.”

“You are,” she said. “For now.”

A chill went through Stevie. She wasn’t smiling when she said it. She was staring down at the field, where Adam Dunn was stepping to the plate to lead off the second inning for the Nats.

Stevie was at a loss for a response. She was threatening
him
now, and—as with everything else—she was very good at it.

Both pitchers settled down after the first inning, and the game became an old-fashioned pitcher’s duel. Matsuzaka was good, allowing only three hits over seven innings. Remarkably, Doyle was better. He walked Jason Bay leading off the second and through seven innings had walked five batters in all, in addition to the hit batsman in the first.

But he hadn’t given up a hit. The Red Sox appeared baffled by his pitches, best described by Svrluga: “Slow, slower, slowest.”

He didn’t throw a fastball that was clocked at more than 82 mph. Every ballpark now had a radar gun behind home plate and a place on the scoreboard that showed the speed of each pitch. Matsuzaka was hitting 95 mph regularly, even occasionally getting to 96. Doyle was usually in the high seventies and low eighties, except when he threw his breaking pitches, which sometimes didn’t even crack 70.

“Reminds me of Tom Glavine and Jamie Moyer,”
Maske said at one point, talking about two superb lefthanders known for keeping batters off balance even though they couldn’t throw very hard.

“Except that they’ve won about five hundred fifty-five more games than he has,” Svrluga said.

“When was the last no-hitter in a World Series?” Stevie asked.

For the first time in six innings Susan Carol said something to him. “There’s only been one,” she said. “Don Larsen’s perfect game in 1956.”

Stevie remembered reading about when Larsen had pitched for the Yankees. He hadn’t been a star, but he’d had one great day. Doyle’s story was even more amazing. Not only was he pitching in his first postseason game ever, he had never won a game in the major leagues.

“Here’s the question,” Svrluga said. “The guy has thrown a hundred twelve pitches. Normally, you’d go to the bullpen here.”

“You’d take him out when he’s pitching a no-hitter?” Stevie said, almost gasping at the thought.

“The manager’s job is to win the game,” Svrluga said. “This is the World Series, not some game in mid-July. If it was five-nothing, it might be different, but at one-nothing I think he has to take him out.”

“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.