Read Online Faithful by Stephen King, Stewart O’Nan - Free Book Online Page A

Tejada, we walk him intentionally and then get Palmeiro to ground out on a nice charging play by Bellhorn that Todd Walker wouldn’t have made.
    We do nothing in the thirteenth. It’s raining again, and it’s past 11:30. Jones, who’s been going deep in the count to every batter, walks Lopez to start the inning. Bautista tries to bunt him across only once, then strikes out. The ump’s noticeably squeezing the zone on Jones on righties, where, in the tenth, he called two pitches well up and in strikes to lefties Tek and Bill Mueller. On 3-1, Segui swings but steals a walk by running down to first. On 3-2, Matos takes an agonizingly close pitch. The ump gives him the home call, and with one out the bases are loaded. Bigbie’s up. Jones has him struck out on a 1-2 pitch—down the pipe, not a nibble job—but, again, the ump doesn’t call it. Part of it’s the lateness of the hour, part of it’s the weather, and part has to be just a lack of respect. Jones dips his head and walks in a circle behind the mound. Ortiz visits from first to calm him down. A borderline pitch and it’s 3-2. And then the payoff pitch is up and out, and the game’s over. The camera follows Jones off, expecting he’ll say something in the direction of the ump. To his credit, he doesn’t.
    I only watch
Extra Innings
for a minute, just long enough to hear Eck say, “Not pretty.”
    As I get ready for bed, I keep replaying the game in my mind, running over the what-ifs, worrying that we’ll need this game somewhere down the road. And it was winnable. There was no good reason we lost it, just a terrible ump. I make a note to find his name in the paper tomorrow. April 9th
    His name is Alfonso Marquez. It’s said an umpire’s done a good job when no one notices him or her. Hey, Marquez, I got my eye on you.
    The paper says Nomar, though he’s still on the DL, will be in uniform for the opener today, as if that will placate the crowd.
    We get going a half hour late, but still arrive a good hour before game time. Parking is horrific. The main lot by the hospital is full, and we cruise Beacon Street down to Coolidge Corner, then try the side streets. We find a spot in a quiet neighborhood about a half mile away and hump it in.
    “Anyone sellin’?” the scalpers call, but no one is.
    The Will Call windows are mobbed, and incredibly slow. I wait in line for half an hour, and fear we’re going to miss the first pitch.
    As we cut in to get to our section, I realize we’re right at Canvas Alley, where the grounds crew hangs out. Up the stairs, and there’s the green of the field and the Monster and the jammed bleachers with the scoreboard on top. Our seats are right on the alley, about ten rows back. We’ve missed the first pitch from Arroyo, but he’s still working on the first batter.
    “The milk bottle’s gone,” Trudy says, and I look up to the roof in right field. The light stanchion there is bare, looming above three tiers of new tables squeezed in beneath a long BUDWEISER sign. The Hood milk bottle used to flash whenever a Sox pitcher struck someone out, and Hood would donate money in the pitcher’s name to the Jimmy Fund. I guess milk and beer don’t mix.
    Also new are Toronto’s black road uniforms, which I don’t like. They look exactly like the D-Rays’.
    Arroyo gets through the first, but makes his own trouble in the second by walking two. The bases are loaded when Reed Johnson doubles off the Monster. 2–0 Jays.
    Behind us are four guys in the brewpub business. One of them is constantly on the phone, trying to cut a deal, hollering as if he doesn’t believe the signal will reach. “We can bring a hundred thousand to start,” he says. “I want to say we can go one-ten, one-twenty if we have to.” He has this conversation with a dozen people, as if he’s clearing the deal with his partners. Buddy, it’s Opening Day. TURN OFF YOUR CELL PHONE.
    In the third Bellhorn’s on second with two down when Johnny comes up.