So Wakefield gets the win, the Red Sox sweep the Blue Jays, and our bullpen was pretty much untouchable throughout. Kevin Youkilis? Glad you asked. The Greek God of Walks reached base three times (one fielder’s choice, two bases on balls) and scored once.

May 24th

Seems like we always have a day off just when we’re getting hot. It gives me time to prepare for tomorrow’s first meeting with Oakland since last year’s Division Series—bound to be loud. It’s a sweet matchup: Schilling versus Tim Hudson, who’s 5-1 with a 2.90 ERA. It’s Foulke’s first game against his old club, and Terry Francona’s, and of course Scott Hatteberg will get a couple of hits, and maybe Johnny Damon. Mark Bellhorn was also an A once, though a low-profile one. With all the turnover lately (and Dan Duquette’s endless fire sale of our best prospects), it’s hard to find a club that doesn’t have some Sox connection.

Tonight’s the Nomar Bowl in Malden, where dozens of Boston sports celebrities and their fans get together at Town Lanes and roll a couple of strings for charity. My friend Paul’s wife Lisa is taking some balls for Nomie to sign, and one of them’s for me.

May 25th

It’s eighty degrees in Hartford; in Boston it’s fifty. I thought I’d be warm enough in a corduroy shirt, but I’m not. Waiting with me outside Gate E is a guy with a giant black wig. I think he’s one of Damon’s Disciples, but it’s a Manny-as-Buckwheat wig, a wild, lopsided ’fro. He and a friend are sitting on the Monster; tomorrow they’re in the .406 Club—they shelled out for the very tickets I’d seen on eBay and seriously contemplated buying, just ’cause I’ve never sat there.

The .406 Club has rules: no jeans, and you have to bring a credit card to buy drinks (there’s a free buffet). During the standard tour of Fenway, the guide says when they finished construction, they realized that because of the thickness of the glass, the room is virtually soundproof. They had to install speakers so customers could hear the game. Any other day, I’d say the .406 Club is no place to watch the Sox, but tonight the idea of being inside is tempting.

The gates roll open and I hoof it down to the corner in left. I nab a couple of balls in BP and report my haul to my favorite usher Bob, then stop by Autograph Alley to see who’s signing. It’s Rich Gale, a pitcher who was with us briefly in ’84, then came back to coach in the early nineties. I remember that he pitched in Japan, and ask him to sign his picture with “Ganbatte!”

“You mean ‘Ganbatte mas!’” he says.

It turns out he pitched for the Hanshin Tigers.