I’m on the road at present, touring pharma and genomics facilities in Phoenix (Wed.-Fri.) and visiting my best friend and his True Love in San Diego (Fri.-Sun.). It’s a little tiring, not least because I’ll be flying off to Salt Lake City next week for the AAPS conference, and off to Atlanta 10 days after that for the PDA annual meeting. But, as John Mellencamp once sang, “This is my life; it’s what I’ve chosen to do.”
The genomics initiative was pretty interesting, and I met up with some editors from other magazines, who sorta boggled over the amount of hats I wear in my role as editor of Contract Pharma. But when you’re a micro-managing control freak, you do what you have to.
During the flight Wednesday, the pilot gave us updates on the score of the Red Sox-Yankees game 6 and the Marlins-Cubs game 7. Chicago, demoralized by its epically fucked-up loss on Tuesday, were beaten by Florida. The Yankees also lost, unable to hold a 7th inning lead, leading to a deciding game 7 on Thursday.
Now, I warned the PR firm that was organizing the trip. I said to the liaison, “You have to understand: if the Yanks are playing the Sox in a game 7, I may disappear in the middle of the big dinner on Thursday night. I wouldn’t do this on just any night, but this would be the final game of a Yankees-Red Sox series. It could be epic.”
The liaison laughed, nervously.
Game 7 impended. Roger Clemens, whom I’ve never truly adopted as a Yankee, was throwing against Pedro Martinez, formerly the best pitcher in baseball, now a really good pitcher who has a tendency to throw at players when he struggles.
We listened to the first three innings on the radio in the van that took us from ASU’s new BioDesign Institute to the Westin, which was hosting a biotech venture capital event. I said to myself, “If Clemens wins this one like he did game 3, and I’ll accept that he really is a Yankee.”
(This could be the subject of a pretty rambling entry, the question of who’s a Real Yankee, and who just wore the uniform for a few years and rode the coattails of the Real players. It isn’t a question of which players were “home grown” and which were traded in or signed as free agents. The greatest Yankee of the last 10 years, in my opinion, is Paul O’Neill, who was traded over from the Cincinnati Reds. O’Neill, introduced for his at-bats with Springsteen’s “10th Avenue Freeze-Out,” was a Yankee through and through, despite having won a World Series title with another squad. Paulie burned to win, and it inspired the rest of the team. Chuck Knoblauch, who came over in a trade and won a few championships, was never a Real Yankee. He contributed pretty well, until he had a mental breakdown and couldn’t complete a throw from second to first, but he was never One Of Us. Anyway, I’ll provide a breakdown of Real Yankees and Fake Yankees some other time.)
Clemens was gone by the beginning of the 4th inning, down 3-0. He is Dead To Me, Dead! now. Despite all the career achievements, he failed to show up in his biggest (and possibly final) game.
(One of the fun things about game 7s — and there are a bunch — is that managers are willing to go “all hands on board” for the win, since there’s no tomorrow. Thus, Joe Torre ended up having three of his starters throw in this game, along with a few relievers. The only pitcher he held out was Andy “Ring of Jesus Fire” Pettitte, who had gone the night before and would’ve been ineffective.)
It sounded as if Pedro was throwing a heck of a game, so I grew despondent. During the cocktail hour at the Westin, I sneaked out to the Starbucks and checked out the game on the internet. I instructed my dad to call if there were any changes in score. The Yankees fell behind 4-0, before Jason Giambi (whose status as a Real Yankee I’ve yet to determine) belted a couple of solo home runs to get the score to 4-2. I had hope: one base-runner, a homer off of Pedro, and we’d be all tied up.
That hope dissipated when I saw that David Wells had given up a solo homer in the top of the 8th, leaving the Yankees down 5-2. With six outs remaining to them, I was sure that they’d lose the game and series, and that my work-trips to Boston would become a major trial, for the rest of my days. It’s bad enough to be heckled by anyone, but it’s really tough when the heckler has an accent that makes him or her sound like a borderline retard. I began to drink a little more heavily at the dinner.
Eventually, William Haseltine was introduced, and he proceeded to deliver his lengthy and rambling self-hagiography, occasionally tying back to genomics and the Translational Genomics initiative that’s taking place in the greater Phoenix area. My cell phone vibrated in my pocket. I took a look and saw that it was my father calling. I figured he was telling me that the game was over, and the Yankees lost. I hit “ignore.”
Then the phone vibrated again, moments later. A friend of mine was calling. I answered it, sneaking out of the dining area. She said, “I can’t believe it!”
“What happened?” I asked.
“They came back! Bernie knocked in Jeter, and Posada just drove in Bernie and Matsui! It’s tied up, and Jorge’s on second base with 1 out!”
“Holy shit!” I hung up, and raced down to the sports bar. “Gimme a G&T!” I said to the bartender-ess, adding, “Come on Ruben! Get me a hit to right field and drive this bitch home!”
(One thing you have to understand is, I sound like a Tourette’s patient when I watch a sporting event. I have a near-constant line of banter going on with the TV, which can be entertaining if you don’t take me too seriously. I mean, it’s not like I REALLY wanted Clemens to throw at Nomar’s head in game 3. I did want him to drill Manny Ramirez in the wrist, but that’s completely justifiable.)
Pedro had been pulled from the game after the Posada hit, having run out of gas several batters earlier. The Yankees couldn’t get another run across in the 8th, so they went into the 9th inning tied up. They brought in their super-heroic closer, Mariano Rivera, to preserve the tie. He was virtually unhittable, and I knew it was only a matter of time till the Yankees finished Boston off. With every Yankee at-bat, I rapped the brass surface of the bar (bruising several of my knuckles pretty badly in the process).
In the top of the 10th, two of the other editors came down to the bar. One said, “You are SO busted.”
“Dude, I SO don’t give a shit. The Yankees came back. They’re going to win the fucking series and destroy the hearts of Boston fans for another generation! Now siddown and have a drink!”
By the top of the 11th, the rest of my group had come down to harass us at the bar. I said, “If we were out east, and it was midnight already, I’d be back at the hotel already. But it’s only 9pm, fer chrissakes! Cut me some slack!” Traveling west rocks, mainly because of the early starting time for sports. If I ever move out west, that’ll be the main reason.
Eventually, I relented and we sent for the van. One of the valets listened to the game on our radio for a few moments. I said, “There’s nothing to listen to. The Yanks are gonna win this one. Boone’s going to belt one out in the 11th, and we’re going to the World Series, baby!”
And he did. First at-bat in the 11th, Aaron Boone — largely unproductive since his mid-season trade to NY, not even starting in this game — had the biggest hit of his career, pasting a left-field home run to end the game and drive a 32-oz. stake into the hearts of Red Sox fans everywhere (particularly Boston).
I unleashed a Ric Flair “Woooo!” in the van, scaring the other editors, who thought they’d seen the limits of my demented behavior. Some of them seemed to think my drunkenness promoted this exuberance, not realizing that, if anything, alcohol actually tones me down during sporting events. I get much more worked up when I watch a big game sober.
One of the editors, a Torontoan, said, “The worst thing is, you fucking called the home run.” Yes, I did.
I was actually kinda thankful not to have watched the home run on TV back in the bar, because I would likely have:
a) embarrassed everyone by doing the “riding a pony” dance across the room, and
b) bought a round for the place in celebration, stipulating that the drinks could only go to those who pledged eternal fealty to the Yankees.
So, all things considered, I feel pretty good that I got through the evening with only a few bruised knuckles.