Timlin comes on, and washed-up Bernie Williams rips a double into the right-field corner, scoring two. 7–4 Yankees, and more booing, curses, then a disappointed (disapproving) silence.

When Millar comes up in our sixth, the crowd boos him lustily. “He hit a home run his last at-bat,” Steph points out. You can see Millar’s pissed off in the on-deck circle, focused, his teeth clenched. He rocks a Paul Quantrill fastball onto the Monster for his second solo shot, and when he crosses the plate, though the kids in the front row do the we’re-not-worthy salaam, his expression hasn’t changed.

In the seventh, Johnny singles, then scores on Tek’s double to left-center when Matsui boots the ball. Ortiz walks, and we’ve got first and second, nobody out, and Manny up. So far Manny’s 0 for 3 with 2 Ks, but we rise and chant his name, expecting deliverance. He grounds into an easy 6-4-3 DP, and the crowd mutters. Formerly washed-up Tom Gordon then hits Nomar in the shoulder, but Trot flies to center.

Curtis Leskanic comes on in the eighth, causing some consternation, and throws a one-two-three inning. Then Millar (cheered now) leads off with a blast onto the Monster to tie the game, his third homer of the night, and the place is louder than it’s been since the playoffs. We’re watching a great game, fuck the Yankees, fuck the standings. We stand and cheer through half of Bill Mueller’s at-bat, but Millar—justifiably—doesn’t come out for a curtain call.

Billy singles, and since he’d be the go-ahead run, Kapler pinch-runs for him. With nobody out Bellhorn needs to bunt him over. Is there anyone on the bench who can bunt better? No, not with Ricky already done and Pokey on the DL. Bellhorn fouls off two, then hits a weak grounder and has to hustle to avoid being doubled up.

“Simple fundamental baseball,” I say.

“Little League baseball,” Mason says.

Johnny doubles. Instead of Kapler scoring, Bellhorn is held at third. We still have two shots at getting him in, but Tek—batting second for some crazy reason—chases a slider from Gordon in the dirt on 3-2, as does Ortiz, and we go to the ninth tied at 7.

Foulke’s in to hold it. After several questionable ball calls by Timmons (and no argument at all by Francona), Sheffield arcs one toward the Monster that looks gone. A couple fans in the front row reach down, and it hits ten feet from the top for a double. A-Rod singles him in—it’s that simple, a poor pitch by Foulke, a good swing by the Mariner shortstop—I mean the Texas shortstop…you know what I mean.