7.22.04 BOSTON RED SOX vs BALTIMORE ORIOLES
We needed this one.
The Red Sox were reeling, having lost the first two of their play-’em-quick three-game series to the Orioles – the Orioles! – and with the Yankees looming (even eight games up, the Yankees loom), if you believed the Internet and the Boston papers, we were one hanging curveball away from tearing the Red Sox apart and selling them for scrap metal on the black market. We’d sat at work and sneaked looks at our computer screens, furtively watching the Orioles feast on the Red Sox’ afternoon starter Abe Alvarez (fresh from Eastern League Portland, and promptly nicknamed “Double A” for his outmatched play), looked at our tickets for the nightcap, and crossed our fingers.
Tim Wakefield, he of the patient knuckler and nearly indestructible shoulder, threw seven strong shutout innings, pacing the hometown Red Sox to a much-needed 4–0 victory. (Much-needed, I guess, in the sense that at least they’re not playing the Yankees on the heels of another excruciating loss, and at least their bullpen’s sort of rested.)
Wakefield looked more comfortable than he has in months and tamed the swirling summer winds, en route to 12 fly ball outs in seven innings (useful when you consider that the Red Sox’ ugly infield lineup went Youkilis-Gutierrez-Bellhorn-Ortiz). He only found himself in one major jam; the first two batters of the game, Brian Roberts and David Newhan, singled, but the shit-hot Melvin Mora got aggressive and popped a 2-0 knuckleball to shallow left. Roberts tagged, but left fielder Dave McCarty, not known for his arm, unleashed a bullet to the plate that hit catcher Doug Mirabelli’s glove two full strides before Roberts reached home. Following the 7-2 double play, Miguel Tejada could only cough up a weak little foul pop to first baseman David Ortiz to end the inning.
McCarty was picked up off Oakland’s waivers by wunderkind GM Theo Epstein last year; for all the noise about Billy Beane’s penchant for recognizing hidden talents in second-tier ballplayers, he apparently couldn’t find anything salvageable about McCarty’s game, so onto the slag heap he went.
But McCarty has been pretty decent, to be perfectly honest. He plays a mean defensive first base (compared to the Sox’ twin golems, Ortiz and Kevin Millar, anyway), he has good corner outfield range, and he’s even pitched a couple of meaningless garbage innings to spare the relievers. When it seemed like the Red Sox might have some depth this year, there was talk of McCarty retiring, at 34, and going into coaching. He’s a Stanford man, and supposedly the Dodgers were interested in making him an instructor.
On this day, at least, Dave McCarty was still a Red Sox, and when he stepped to the plate in the bottom of the first with the bases loaded, he received a big ovation from the appreciative Fenway faithful: who, while fickle, know and love good defense better than any other group of baseball fans I’ve ever witnessed. Once the applause died down, the Red Sox up 1–0 on Manny Ramirez’ RBI groundout, McCarty singled sharply to right, making it 3–0, and from then on, quite frankly, the victory was never in danger. Wakefield continue to baffle the Orioles’ hitters, journeyman shortstop Ricky Gutierrez played serviceable defense in his Sox debut and hit a big double over supervillain Karim Garcia’s head, and the game concluded in a svelte 2:31.
FINAL SCORE: Red Sox 4, Orioles 0.
BIGGEST ASSHOLE: Always a hotly-contested category at Fenway, which breeds drunken louts named Murph like lice. The award tonight, however, has to go to the hugely obese guy in front of me wearing a T-shirt emblazoned with the following slogan: “I only support gay marriage if both chicks are hot.” Oh, WIT.
I’m aware that he probably doesn’t have a girlfriend himself, but should he happen to, and should she read this, I strongly encourage her to cut his fucking penis off.
BEST SEATS EVER: Right field roof box (right near where the giant ugly milk bottle used to be, about level with Pesky’s Pole). So incredibly amazing that I can’t believe new friend Chris sold his seat to me for face value; in Fenway, with its thousands of seats either partially obstructed or not even facing home plate, the experience of being atop the ballpark and being able to soak in every single inch of it – all the facades, all the wonderful idiosyncrasies of the park, and best of all, leg room – is unparalleled. I would sit here again anytime. Just outstanding fucking seats. The only regret came in the form of roommates Gabi and Ariel not being able to attend (their standing-room tickets were actually for the afternoon make-up game).
BEST CELEBRITY ENCOUNTER: Pedro Martinez! I swear! I was walking down Ipswich St, eating a sausage, and as I waited to cross the street, Pedro and a security guard emerged from an SUV and headed into the park, not ten feet away. The corner was deserted but for me, Pedro, the security guard, and two Murphs, who promptly bellowed “Pedro!”
I wasn’t going to say anything. I swear. It was enough to gawk – it was Pedro – but I was caught in the fanboy quicksand with no chance to escape. Pedro stopped, smiled, said hello, and shook all of our hands. He may be a fragile, pampered diva, but damned if he wasn’t nice to us. Murph #1 said, “Pedro, you rule!” Murph #2 said, “Stay in Boston, Pedro!”
I said nothing.
MEMORABLE HECKLE: Any time Karim Garcia, he of the ALCS groundskeeper assault and newly an Oriole, stepped to the plate, he was given the business in traditional Fenway style. In addition, he was sporting a ludicrous floppy mustache for no particular reason, leading to this gem after a groundout: “Sweet swing, Starsky!”
FOOD CONSUMED: Sausage Guy sausage (several orders of magnitude better than the food inside Fenway Park, which is uniformly atrocious and expensive), big beer (which cost like $8.00), Diet Coke, soft-serve vanilla ice cream in miniature batting helmet (inexplicably, an Expos helmet).
Dan Cohen
