Last night after the game, I hung around the dugout to shout “Jefeeeeeeeeeeee!” to David Ortiz and chant “Who’s your Pa-pi?” with the rest of the diehard Faithful. When I finally got out onto Yawkey Way it was two o’clock, and most of the players had left. On Brookline Ave, the riot cops were standing in close formation on the bridge to Kenmore Square, forcing us stragglers to walk down Lansdowne and then along the scuzzy streets bordering the Mass Pike. I didn’t mind. There were a couple other fans in sight, and we were all ditzy from the win and just how very late it was. The street I was on curved up to Boylston, and as I reached the intersection, a motorcycle cop came wailing up on his Electra Glide and stopped in the middle of the street. He hopped off and started pointing to the oncoming cars, waving them to the side of the road, and as it dawned on me what was happening, here came the Yankees’ team bus—appropriately from Yankee Bus Lines, and appropriately yellow—and my legs found a strength and a spring I thought I’d lost back in the fifth inning, carrying me to the exact spot I needed to be in, the right place at the right time. I watched heads inside turn toward me, bleary faces puzzled by this apparition in black in a PawSox hat standing in the vacant other lane, lit like a devil by the red stoplight, proudly holding up his middle finger.

Today the guys show up at the parking lot before Game 5 wearing their very best suits and wheeling luggage like it’s any other travel day—a good sign, I think. Yesterday when Mark Bellhorn walked by, a few people booed, and he didn’t look over. Today I holler, “Hey Mahk, don’t let the bastards get you down!” and he smiles and nods. Johnny’s had an adhesive Ace bandage on the meaty flat of his right hand (his lead hand) for a couple of weeks now, and I wonder if he can grip the bat correctly. Every day I ask, “How’s the hand, John?” and he says it’s okay, but without conviction, as if it’s still bothering him. These are the guys we need to set the table for Manny and David. If they don’t pick it up, we’re going nowhere.

Just before game time, I visit with Bob the usher over in Section 32. We chat and then say good-bye, shake hands. It’s our last home game of the ALCS, and there’s a fall feeling of the season being over, things being packed away, but I can’t let it stand.

“I’ll see you for the Series,” I say.

“I hope so,” he says.

“I know so,” I say, full of false bravado. “Right here, baby.”

October 19th/ALCS Game 5

October 19th/ALCS Game 5