Fenway Fever Read online

  Mark and Pops kept working, as they usually did at these moments, to let the two “kids” talk. Billee Orbitt frequently visited Papa Pagano’s on his off days to grab a few dogs, a good-luck ritual he had begun last year—which he claimed “worked like a snake charm”—but Stats could not ever recall him stopping by on a day he was scheduled to pitch.

  He pointed at the pitcher’s weird clothes. “You got your uniform on under that?”

  “Half of it.” Billee grinned, looking himself over. “Just trying to shake things up a bit and break my routine. Besides, I’m starving. Red Sox have no food left in there.”

  “Shake what things up?”

  “You kidding? Look, I’ve lost four in a row, and my ERA’s still around 3.20. What does that tell you?”

  Stats thought a moment. “It’s 3.13, actually, but what’s wrong with that? Allowing three runs per game is not a bad average at all.”

  “I agree, which proves I’m throwing about as good as I ever have, with nothing but a lousy one-and-four record to show for it. Last game, for example, I was zoned, baby. Zoom, ziggy, zoom.” He wing-waddled his hand through the air. “But it wasn’t enough. And not only that, we have gone from four games in front of the Yankees to one game behind in, what, ten days? We’re not that bad of a team, Stat Man. Something else is going on.”

  “Like what?”

  “I have to believe there are some outside forces at work here. After all, it’s 2012.”

  Stats had heard that talk before. Actually, a lot of people believed this year, 2012, was supposed to be earth-changing—maybe even the end of the world as we knew it.

  “Hasn’t been all that bad,” offered Stats, who put very little stock in the whole 2012 doom-and-gloom scenario.

  To be honest, Stats, as well as zillions of devoted members of Red Sox Nation, preferred to see it this way: If the holy game of baseball was coming to an end during the year of the Fenway Park Centennial, then they figured it would be only fitting that their Sox should win not just the 2012 American League pennant, but the world’s last World Series to boot.

  “Hey, you win tonight,” Stats continued, “and we stop the slide. We’re back even with the Yanks, with a chance to split the series tomorrow and regain first place. Besides, the last time you pitched, what was it? You left in the fifth, game tied four–four, right? Then a seeing-eye single and a pop flare scores two? Not your fault we lost. In baseball that stuff happens. But it always evens out over time. And I got the stats to prove it.”

  He grinned widely.

  Billee shook his head. “Wish that were true, Stat Man. But this year’s different. It’s not just a bad bounce here, bloop hit there. A boot, a bobble. Most of the time, that stuff does even out. But this is pure bad luck. And it’s all one-sided. Plus, it’s only getting worse. One thing goes wrong, then two, then three. Before you know it, I get hung with an ‘L,’ the team goes downhill, and, buddy”—he waggled his cowboy hat—“it’s driving me ba-zerko.”

  Ah, thought Stats, so that’s what does it. But he decided not to say anything. He did have to admit, though, Billee had a point.

  Last year, during his rookie season, Billee was baseball’s star attraction, a twenty-one-year-old phenom. People packed the parks in every city he pitched just to watch his ninety-three-mph “buckler ball” buckle a batter’s knees, his “dipster ball” dip and dash, and his world-famous slo-mo “leaflutz” pitch flutter like a falling leaf, while hitters flailed away, smacking nothing but air.

  The fans also loved to see Billee’s herky-jerky merry-go-round windup, known as the “Lefty Looey,” since it reminded the Boston faithful of a left-handed version of former Sox pitching great Luis Tiant.

  Of course, it also helped that Billee was a local boy, born in Worcester, Mass., and raised in Northborough. In his year at triple-A Pawtucket, he was tagged the “Worcester Rooster,” as much for his habit of scratching up the mound between innings as the fact that around here, regardless of spelling, those two words actually rhyme. Later on, fans dubbed him the Spacebird, partly because of the rooster tag and partly because of his often-stated dream to one day fly through space and visit his ancestors.

  Needless to say, the loony (as in lunar) left-hander became an overnight fan favorite. But as most folks would agree, last year ended on a sour note, and Billee’s star was beginning to fade.

  He grabbed the first chili dog Stats set on the counter, then walked over to pitch a wadded-up twenty into the tip jar. Billee never had to pay for his food—one of Pops’s rules—but he always left a generous tip.

  “Hey, Pops!” called Billee, holding his chili dog high. “Have I ever told you this? Your hot dogs are a legend in their own brine.”

  Pops threw his head back and roared. “About a thousand times, you Wiener schnitzel. Now, move along.” He pointed in Mark’s direction with his silver tongs. “Look how slow the line’s going with you standing around.”

  Despite being incognito, the gangly, animated pitcher had been quickly identified by several fans, who started bunching up at the counter to gawk. The purple pants may have been a giveaway, if not the deerskin pouch full of herbs (mixed with Fenway Park grass trimmings) dangling from his neck.

  Billee, however, simply scooped up the next chili dog and sent a wave to everyone as they, in turn, wished him luck. Then he began his customary stroll toward a small nook in the brick wall behind the sidewalk stand, where he and Stats often conferred. Stats slipped under the countertop to follow.

  “All right, Stat Man,” said Billee. “Status report. What’ve you uncovered so far?”

  As he straightened up, Stats felt his heart flutter. Closing his fist, he tapped his chest, then coughed. It was one of the strategies he had discovered to overcome the swelling surge of palpitations he sometimes felt. The feeling left.

  “Thought you’d never ask, Billee. I’ve had the whole Stat Pack helping me all week, and there’s one thing we came up with that you might be very interested in.”

  Billee’s upside-down traffic cone of a goatee sprouted a full toothy grin from somewhere inside. “That’s why I hired you, kid.”

  “Hired” was stretching it. But last week Billee had asked Stats to research a few things, and, as usual, Stats was happy to help.

  His task was to scour the scorebooks and compile data on such things as uncompleted double plays that led to a run being scored; bad hop, “seeing-eye,” or fluke hits that scored key runs; and passed balls or wild pitches that advanced runners who later scored. Billee labeled these “bad-luck runs.” He wanted to know if, as he suspected, the Sox had lost more close games because of bad-luck runs (BLRs) than other teams up to this point—the first six weeks of the season.

  “Okay, so, I sorted through all the data on all of the teams, and the Red Sox have already had six BLR losses this year. Which is more than any other team we know of.”

  Stats paused while Billee chomped down into his chili dog and leaned against the ancient wall covered with posters shouting FENWAY FEVER! 100º AND RISING! He nodded.

  Stats went on. “The interesting thing is, four of those losses happened when you pitched.”

  “Well,” said Billee. “Maybe I’m not so crazy after all.”

  Again, Stats thought it best not to comment. But he did feel compelled to inject an element of logic.

  “Billee, I know what you’re thinking. You gotta remember what I said, though. In the long run, statistically speaking, there really is no such thing as good luck or bad. It pretty much evens out over time.”

  Billee lowered an eyebrow and cocked his head. “And like I say, this is different. Trust me, Stat Man. I’m tuned in to stuff like this. They don’t call me Spacebird for nothing.” He set his fists against his temples, then extended both pointing fingers and wiggled them. “Voom, zoom.”

  He winked, then grew serious. “Okay, bud, here’s what I’d like you to do next. Start tuning in to the vibe around here. Find out all you can about anything around this ballpark that
could’ve knocked things out of whack.”

  “Out of whack?” said Stats. “Like what?”

  “Like anything. With all the recent renovations, who knows? Renaming the .406 Club could’ve done it, replacing all the solid oak seats with plastic might’ve done it, or even installing those three new HD video boards. And it might not be just one thing. They all add up, you know.”

  “Add up to what?”

  “To a new balance. Which means the old balance we had back in ’04 and ’07 may be long gone. And if that’s the case …” Billee lowered his voice. “I fear there may very well be a new Red Sox curse afoot.”

  “Oh, you don’t really mean that, do you?” Stats could feel his heart plump up and flutter out a double beat.

  The pitcher narrowed his eyes. “As far as I’m concerned, we’ll find out tonight. This game will be the real test. If the momentum shifts, if things start to turn around and go my way, then I’ll say, okay, maybe it will start to all even out. No harm, no foul balls. But if not, then—”

  He took another bite, looking high over Stats’s lucky 2007 Red Sox cap, far into the clouds.

  Stats turned around and looked up, too, but didn’t see much. “Then what?” he asked.

  Billee chewed slowly, pondering.

  “Then it’ll be up to guys like you and me to stop this new curse.”

  CHAPTER 3

  After an exhausting three hours, the action at Papa Pagano’s had finally slowed to a “one-man stand,” as Pops called it. Stats held wet towels in each hand like mitts, mopping up the countertops and storage bins, while Mark worked a wire brush over the still-smoldering grill.

  As if on cue, Stats could hear the legendary Celtic rock band Dropkick Murphys begin singing the national anthem inside the ballpark, and Pops waved his hand.

  “Get outta here,” he commanded.

  The boys tossed their towels into the linen box behind the counter, then pulled off their aprons and slung them in, too. Mark lifted the escape hatch, snatching his ballpark glove off its hook. Stats grabbed his scorebook. And they both hustled away.

  Now, Pops was a great Red Sox fan, too, don’t let anyone tell you different. Long before Stats was even born, Pops had attended games religiously, all the way through the 2007 World Series. Along with Mama Pagano.

  When she got sick, however, everything normal came to a halt. When she died, everything changed.

  These days, Pops was happy just to root from the outside, watch his tiny TV, listen for the roars, and know that he did not have to walk down that long aisle of narrow steps that leads to the front row of section 71. Nor did he have to pause at the foot of the aisleway, to see one seat waiting for him and the other one empty.

  In the top of the first, Billee started his routine, which would tend to get replayed on the scoreboard and for the fans at home from time to time. First he tramped around the mound, scratching and smoothing the dirt. Then he turned his back to the catcher and held the ball to his face, saying something encouraging to it. Finally, he began warming up.

  As was his custom, with each pitch Billee spun fully around, nodding at the infielders, before he uncoiled like a striking snake to deliver the ball to the plate. The fans loved it and responded with hoots and whistles after each toss.

  When catcher Burlin Fiske received the final warm-up pitch, he rifled the ball to second, where it was zipped around the horn, only to be flipped ten feet high by Wadell Fens, at third, so Billee could snatch the “falling star” bare-handed. Tucking his glove under his arm, he then stalked around the mound, slapping and rubbing the ball with his left palm. Satisfied finally with the “feel” of the situation, Billee stepped to the rubber and looked in for a sign.

  For the first hour, this highly hyped game between the top two AL East Division teams became a pitchers’ duel, with no score through four.

  Billee had to be happy. He looked unhittable. Stats could feel his heart calm and his breathing grow strong.

  When Flasher Gordon, the Yankees’ leadoff man in the top of the fifth, went down on strikes, everyone rose. What a relief, thought Stats, to see the fans supporting Billee Orbitt once again. Lately the snarls and sneers had grown proportionate to the Red Sox’s slide out of first place. Last night, when things got rough for young True Denton on the mound, Stats had witnessed several in the crowd become a strange gang of hostiles, their faces rife with anger.

  “Our team is our team,” Pops had always said. “Win or lose, they come to play and play their best. So why turn on them?”

  Mark could, of course, offer a few reasons why, but Stats would always counter and help Pops hold his ground.

  The next batter chopped one to the second sacker, Dusty Doretta, who promptly swept it up and fired to Sandiego Gunsalvo at first for out number two.

  After Billee got ahead on the inning’s third batter, Dirk Scooter, the Yankee shortstop, he missed with the next three pitches. The count went full.

  “Now he’s trying to be too fine,” said Mark. “He’s got to just stick to what he’s been doing. Use the buckler to set up the leaflutz and mix in the dipster to keep ’em honest. Right?”

  “Right,” said Mr. McCord, a fellow season ticket holder, who sat one row behind.

  The next pitch was, sure enough, a buckler that sailed in tight. But with two strikes, Scooter had to protect. He swung hard to fight it off and ended up launching a high pop fly straight up the elevator shaft behind third base. Continuing to rise, the white satellite began to tail off toward the stands.

  “It’s coming our way!” shouted Stats.

  Mark already had his glove high in the air.

  “Wait!” Stats threw his arm across Mark’s chest. “Don’t cause interference.”

  “I won’t. But if it’s out of play, I’m bringing it in.”

  As the ball descended, both boys toed the barrier fence to watch.

  Then the thunder began.

  Not true thunder, exactly, but the next-closest thing. Stats lowered his gaze just in time to see gold-glove shortstop Rico Ruíz, maybe fifteen feet away, pounding the earth, rushing at them both full blast.

  “Duck!” Stats covered his head with his forearms and fell to the concrete floor, knocking against Mark, who obviously had the same idea.

  The shortstop crashed into the wall. Stats cringed. Then the great Red Sox hero tumbled into the stands, headfirst, his feet somewhere high in the sky. Stats and Mark, hunkered against their folded seats, shared the brunt of the man’s fall, pushing Stats one way and Mark the other.

  As Stats slid away, he felt his knee snag onto something, then jolt forward. He opened his eyes and slipped his hands from his face. Folded up as he was with his head tucked into his chest, Stats had a perfect view.

  First, he saw black leather. Then he saw white.

  The ball lay on concrete, trapped under the shortstop’s black glove. Right where Stats’s knee had knocked it.

  The “snag” had been the tip of the shortstop’s glove.

  Oh, no! thought Stats. I made him drop it. All that hustle, all that trouble for nothing!

  He closed his eyes, still adrift in the moment’s awe. “That was unbelievable.”

  Those last words went unheard, buried by the roar that erupted next. Why are they cheering? he wondered.

  That’s when he spotted the veteran Ruíz holding the ball high in the palm of his glove.

  A catch. He was claiming he’d caught the ball.

  Yes! thought Stats. He did. That is, he would’ve if I hadn’t knocked it loose.

  But the umpire had been right there, on top of the play. He shook his head, bending at the waist, swinging his arms sideways. In an instant, that “no catch” gesture rolled into a two-palms-up juggling motion showing the crowd that Rico never had full possession of the ball.

  That, of course, caused Rico to feign indignity, but the ump, Jim Joyce, was known for his keen eye and accuracy, and the Boston fans soon settled into acceptance.

  On the very next pitch, t
he lucky batter walked. In a bid to get ahead of the Yankees’ cleanup hitter, Reggie Marruth, Billee grooved a fastball, and hard-hitting Reggie jacked a rocket into the right-field seats. Two-run homer. In a flash, all of Billee’s keen, methodical work had turned into two bad-luck runs. Not insurmountable, but if not for Stats’s knee, the game would still be tied, 0–0.

  CHAPTER 4

  Billee came out of the game after going seven full innings, with the Sox still trailing 2–0.

  That score held until the bottom of the ninth, when Kenny “Hawkeye” Jensen pinch-hit for Drew Evans and singled up the middle, bringing the top of the Red Sox batting order to the plate.

  “Hey, Rico’s gonna hit this inning,” said Mark. “One on, no outs. He’s in the hole.”

  “Unless they get a double play,” Stats said quietly. There was something about having caused your home team to lose an out—which then cost them two runs—that saps the optimism from your heart.

  The pinch hitter on first gave way to a pinch runner, speedster Robertos Davíd, who promptly stole second.

  “Tough to double him up now,” said Mark.

  Stats only watched, willing the batter, Wadell Fens, the Sox’s leadoff man, to drive the run in with a clean base hit and get a rally going. The Sox needed more than one run to stay in this game.

  Stats took off his hat, turned it inside out, and put it back on.

  It seemed the lucky rally cap strategy didn’t help much. Fens went after an off-speed pitch and lofted a soft flare to deep short, which Dirk Scooter tracked down. One away. The next guy, Doretta, grounded out to third, freezing the runner at second. Two out.

  The Sox were now down to their last hope. Luckily, it was their best hope. Walking in from the on-deck circle came Boston’s leading hitter. The crowd was already rising.

  “Now batting for the Red Sox,” came the rich, resonant voice over the ballpark’s loudspeakers, “the shortstop, Rico Ru-íz!”

  From the kelly-green girders high above home plate to the thirty-seven-foot Green Monster wall in left field, the elegant ballyard built a century ago shook in the thunderous roll of one long tuba-like drone.