“I think he’s reminding him that he wants to get this over with now,” Maske said. “Pedroia’s very good, but they’ve got Ortiz on deck.”
Reminded or not, Doyle pitched carefully-too carefully-and walked Pedroia to load the bases.
“Uh-oh,” Susan Carol said as Ortiz walked to the plate and Acta jogged to the mound. Hanrahan was ready in the bullpen. This had to be it. The entire infield surrounded Doyle and Acta, ready to give him a hero’s send-off once Acta signaled for Hanrahan.
But the signal never came. Acta gave Doyle a pat on the back and jogged back to the dugout.
“Is he completely crazy?” Svrluga said.
Stevie could think of only one answer: apparently so.
Even at thirty-five, Ortiz was arguably the best clutch hitter in baseball, and he was smacking his hands together as he always did while walking to the plate. Fenway, almost silent after the first two outs, was now so loud there was no point in anyone trying to talk. In the Nats dugout Acta never moved. He had ridden Doyle this far, he would stay with him-do or die-for one more batter.
Ortiz stepped into the left-hand batter’s box. With the bases loaded, the Nationals overshifted as almost every team did against Ortiz: Ryan Zimmerman moved from third to the shortstop’s normal spot; Guzman moved to the first-base side of second; second baseman Belliard moved into shallow right field between first and second; and Aaron Boone, at first base, played deep and fairly close to the line.
Doyle quickly threw a strike on the outside corner. The next two pitches weren’t close, and the count went to 2-1. Amazingly, the place got louder. Ortiz took a huge cut at the next pitch, a slider that appeared to hang a little. But he just missed getting solid wood on it, fouling it into the seats.
Now it was 2-2. Doyle tried to get Ortiz to chase a high fastball, but he held back. The count ran to 3-2. The tension was unbearable. Doyle had to throw a strike or walk in the tying run. Stevie felt as if he couldn’t breathe.
With the bases loaded, Doyle was pitching from the full windup. He rocked, kicked his leg in the air, and threw. Ortiz timed the pitch perfectly. The ball screamed off his bat on a line, headed toward the right-field corner. As soon as Stevie saw the ball come off the bat, his heart sank. Two runs would score easily by the time Kearns tracked the ball down, and then the series would be over.
But suddenly, seemingly from nowhere, Stevie saw Boone leap into the air, his arm stretching out as far as it could possibly go, lunging at the ball as it was going past him. Somehow, with his entire body parallel to the ground, he got his glove on it-the ball smacked off the top edge of his glove and popped into the air. Lying on the ground, Boone reached as far as he could with his bare hand and caught the ball no more than an inch from the ground.
For a split second nobody moved. Boone was lying on his stomach, holding the ball up for everyone to see, and umpire Tim McClelland was giving the out signal.
“OH MY GOD!” Susan Carol screamed.
They were all on their feet, looking in disbelief while the Nationals raced en masse from their dugout to engulf both Boone and Doyle.
“Aaron Bleepin’ Boone again!” Stevie shouted. “He’ll never get out of this place alive!”
But then an amazing thing happened. As the Nationals celebrated, the Red Sox, instead of just leaving the field, came out of the dugout themselves, led by Francona, to offer congratulations. As they did, the crowd, recovering from the shock of what it had just seen, responded. Slowly a wave of applause began, and after a few moments almost everyone in the ballpark was standing and clapping-for both teams.
Stevie felt chills run down his spine. He looked at Susan Carol, who was crying. He thought he might cry too. It had never occurred to him in the last week that their story might have a happy ending. But now, remarkably, it did.
Soon after they had fought their way through the crowds to meet Kelleher and Mearns in the interview room, Major League Baseball announced that Norbert Doyle and Aaron Boone had been selected as co-MVPs of the World Series. Both Stevie and Susan Carol were assigned to write about Aaron Boone. “Doyle is everyone’s lede, and Manny Acta leaving him in is the column,” Kelleher said. “The other sidebar writers will get into what this means to Washington. Tamara and I both think you guys should do Boone.”
That agreed, they awaited the arrival of the game’s heroes. Manny Acta went first. Then came Boone, who joked about his “blazing speed on the base paths” and said, “I really do love Boston, it’s a great city, but I guess I’ll never live here.”
Then, finally, came Doyle. He was asked all the questions you might expect about being surprised to still be in the game (yes); whether he thought Ortiz’s ball was a hit (absolutely); and how amazed was he to be sitting there as the World Series co-MVP having never won a regular-season game in the major leagues (flabbergasted).
Finally, someone asked if he thought his story was likely to become a movie pretty soon.
“No,” he said firmly. “It won’t. I pitched two good games at the right time. End of story.”
Stevie and Susan Carol walked into the hallway a few moments later. They hadn’t gone four steps before they found themselves face to face with David and Morra Doyle, who had security people escorting them to see their dad in the interview room.
Stevie felt himself go tense preparing for a confrontation. Instead David walked up with his hand out.
“Dad texted us before the game that we owe you both an apology and thanks,” he said. “He says you did a lot more reporting than any of us knew and decided in the end there was no story to write.” He looked Stevie in the eye. “I’m sorry I acted like such a jerk yesterday.”
“Apology accepted,” Stevie said.
Everyone shook hands, which made Stevie feel like a grown-up. There were no hugs-which Stevie was grateful for. That would have been too awkward. The Doyles went down the hall to wait for their father to finish talking to the media.
Stevie and Susan Carol continued along the hallway, heading for the Nationals clubhouse to ask Boone some follow-up questions before they went upstairs to write.
“Well,” Stevie said. “We did it again, I guess.”
She put an arm around him for a moment. “You did most of it this time,” she said.
“In the end we didn’t do anything,” he said.
“I know,” she said. “But nothing was the right thing to do. And there’s nothing wrong with just writing a great story about a great World Series, is there?”
“No,” Stevie said. “That is pretty cool, actually. Maybe I’m just a little spoiled.”
“No doubt you are,” she said. “But you did great work this week. I lost it for a while, but you never did.”
“You did lose your cool for a little while.” Stevie grinned.
She rolled her eyes. “So what exactly do I have to do to make this up to you?”
“That,” Stevie said, “is a question I will be happy to think about for a while. Let me get back to you on it.”
“I’m sure you will,” she said, her face lighting up with the Smile. “I’m sure you will.”
John Feinstein
John Feinstein spent years on the staff at the Washington Post, as well as writing for Sports Illustrated and the National Sports Daily. He is a commentator on NPR's "Morning Edition," a regular on ESPN's "The Sports Reporters" and a visiting professor of journalism at Duke University.
His first book, A Season on the Brink, is the bestselling sports book of all time. His first book for younger readers, Last Shot, was a bestseller.
