In the playoffs they had trailed the Chicago Cubs two games to none in the best-of-five Division Series before rallying to win, and then had pulled off their miraculous seventh-game victory in the League Championship Series.
Now, amazingly, they were in the World Series. And Kelleher was interviewing Walter Johnson’s ghost for his Sunday column. Stevie wasn’t sure which story was more unbelievable.
He was engrossed in his research when he noticed an IM coming in on his computer.
“Did U C they activated Doyle?” Susan Carol was asking.
“Yeah,” Stevie replied. “Now everyone will write it. But I’m thinking maybe talking to his kids will give me an angle no one else has.”
“Great idea,” she answered. “Have U contacted Dever to set something up?” she asked, meaning John Dever, the Nats’ PR director.
Stevie stared at the screen for a moment. As usual, she was a half step ahead of him.
“Not yet. U still have his e-mail?”
“Of course.”
“Y R U always smarter than me?” he asked.
“Because I’m a girl. Talk later. Bye.”
Stevie sighed. He sent Dever an e-mail asking if he could set him up with Doyle and the twins, then decided to take a break. He pushed back from his desk and went to join his dad watching the Eagles and Redskins-which reminded him it was late October. The sports seasons just got longer and longer.
3: FIRST NIGHT AT FENWAY
BY THE TIME STEVIE’S DAD DROPPED HIM at the airport Tuesday morning, Stevie had a breakfast scheduled for Wednesday with Norbert, David, and Morra Doyle. There had been one condition in Dever’s return e-maiclass="underline" “He wants to know if Susan Carol can come too.”
Stevie laughed when he read that; David Doyle’s crush on Susan Carol was clearly pretty strong. “I think I can arrange that,” he wrote back. He then wrote to Susan Carol to make sure she was okay with it.
“Don’t say I’ve never done anything for you,” she had written back.
Stevie took a cab to the Marriott Long Wharf as soon as his plane landed. The cab ride was brief- Logan Airport was only a couple of miles from downtown, and at one o’clock there wasn’t much traffic. About sixty seconds after emerging from the Sumner Tunnel, Stevie found himself in front of the hotel.
“Welcome to the Marriott, Mr. Thomas,” the doorman said as Stevie climbed out of the cab. Seeing the stunned look on Stevie’s face, he smiled. “This is Boston,” he said. “We’re all big sports fans. I’m Mike. Anything I can do to help, let me know.”
Stevie took an escalator up to the lobby level and found Kelleher waiting.
“Come on,” Kelleher said. “Tamara and Susan Carol are in the restaurant. We’ll get a bite to eat before we go to the ballpark so you don’t have to eat the box lunch.”
“They serve a box lunch at the World Series?”
“Yup. You can have the oh-so-appetizing dried-out apple for dessert.”
The restaurant overlooked Boston Harbor. Stevie could see planes taking off directly across the water. Susan Carol got up to give him a hug. Stevie could never completely get over just how pretty she was, even with her hair tied back in a ponytail. Her hair, he noticed, was wet.
“Did you just shower?” he asked.
“After I swam,” she said. “Bobby got me into the pool at Harvard.”
Stevie was baffled. Harvard, he knew, was in Cambridge.
“Isn’t Cambridge a ways from here?” he asked.
“Actually, it’s not,” Kelleher said. “Only about ten minutes. Nothing in Boston is very far. But the Harvard athletic facilities are all on this side of the river, in Boston.”
Stevie admired Susan Carol’s dedication to her sport-she always managed to find places to swim away from home. But if he was being honest with himself, he’d admit that it also bugged him just a little that Susan Carol was a much more accomplished athlete than he was. He was hoping to make the JV basketball team, and he knew that even if he did make it, he wouldn’t be a starter. Susan Carol, on the other hand, was a nationally ranked swimmer. Her 100-meter butterfly time ranked fourth in the country in the fourteen-and-under age group. If he didn’t love her, he might be inclined to hate her… just a little.
They ate quickly and took a cab to Fenway Park to get settled in for game one. Stevie spotted the famous Citgo sign that loomed over the stadium. And they got out of the cab on Yawkey Way -a street named for Tom Yawkey, the former Red Sox owner.
It was four hours before game time, but people were everywhere. There were all sorts of souvenir shops and bars and restaurants lining both sides of the street. Kelleher led them through the crowds-including the inevitable ticket scalpers, all screaming, “Anyone selling tickets?” which Stevie now knew was code for the fact that they were selling tickets but didn’t want to get nailed by a plainclothes cop-to a small door with a sign that said Media. None of the stadium’s gates were open yet.
Stevie had come prepared with two different kinds of photo ID: his student ID from school and a passport. The first time he’d covered a major event, the guy handing out credentials had insisted on seeing a driver’s license, until more sensible heads prevailed.
Stevie was about to pull out his various forms of ID when he heard Kelleher let out a shout: “Phyllis!” he said. “About time you showed up someplace.”
He was giving a hug to a woman with dark hair who had walked up to the credentials pickup area just as they arrived.
“I was at the American League playoffs, you know that,” she said, hugging Kelleher in return. “I can’t help it if you work in a National League city.”
“You’re still an American Leaguer at heart, aren’t you?” Kelleher said.
“Please don’t tell on me,” she said, flashing a wide smile.
Spotting Stevie and Susan Carol, she gave a little gasp. “Now, these are the people I really want to meet.”
“Stevie, Susan Carol, this is Phyllis Merhige,” Kelleher said. “I know there’s a general perception that Bud Selig runs Major League Baseball, but it’s not true. Phyllis does.”
“Stop it, Bobby,” Phyllis said.
She shook hands warmly with Stevie and Susan Carol and gave Tamara a hug. “I’ve followed you two since the Final Four in New Orleans,” she said. “The only reason I’d ask you for ID is because I can’t believe you’re both only fourteen.”
“It is a pleasure to meet you,” Susan Carol said, her Southern accent popping up as it often did when she wanted to charm someone. “Every time I see your name, it’s always something about ‘the great Phyllis Merhige’ or ‘the wonderful Phyllis Merhige.’”
“That’s because she is great,” Tamara said.
“Enough, enough!” Phyllis said.
She turned to the three staffers sitting at the credentials desk. “Have we got the passes for these guys?” she asked.
“Right here,” said one.
“I need to make sure the kids have locker room badges,” Kelleher said. “That’s where they’ll do most of their work after the game.”
“They’re not down for the locker room,” one of the women said.
“Don’t worry,” Phyllis said. “They are now.”
She reached into her pocket and produced two badges that said Postgame Locker Room and handed them to Stevie and Susan Carol. “If you have any trouble when you get to Washington, find me and I’ll take care of you. Anyone asks where you got ’em, say you don’t remember.” She winked.
“I owe you one,” Bobby said.
“You owe me a lot more than one,” she said. “Have fun tonight.”
Stevie’s first impression of Fenway Park was simple: it was old. Walking through the dank hallways underneath the stands, Stevie found it hard to believe that this was the legendary place he had heard and read so much about.