It’s Frank Catalanotto, their left fielder and number two hitter, whose triple started them off yesterday.

Still nothing down the line. A lot of balls are banging off the Monster or reaching the seats. One arcs down into the front row, where a big guy in a windbreaker catches it barehanded against his chest and gets a hand. It’s the dad from Lansdowne. The kid’s all excited.

Later, on his way back out to left, Catalanotto picks up a ball from the grass behind third and—amazingly—tosses it to me. When he comes off, I ask if he’ll sign one, and he does. It’s the only autograph he gives, and while he’s not a star, I feel lucky, singled out.

BP’s finished, and I wander over to Steve’s seats behind the Sox on-deck circle. They’re dream seats, so close that, say, Manny swinging his taped-up piece of rebar intrudes on your view of Ortiz at the plate. Julie, the assistant who’s babysitting Steve’s tickets, might be there, and I need to talk to her. I plant myself in his seat and admire the balls and Catalanotto’s illegible signature. As game time nears, I wonder if Julie’s coming. If not, fine. I’ll just sit here.

Before the game starts, there’s already good news on the scoreboard:

CWS 7

NYY 3

Pedro comes out throwing 89–90. Catalanotto singles sharply to center, but that’s it in the first. Halladay’s up at 93, 95. He’s 6′4″ with a patchy beard, and on the mound he looks Randy Johnson tall. Crespo leads off, and Halladay blows two by him, then freezes him with a backdoor curve. Bill Mueller and Ortiz barely get wood on the ball. Looks like it’s going to be a quick game.

Josh Phelps leads off the top of the second with a drive down the right-field line. It looks like it’s going to drop, but Kapler digs hard and dives, tumbles in the dust and comes up with it. It’s even bigger when the next batter, Hinske, rips a single. There’s some muttering in the seats, but Pedro bears down and gets Hudson, then gets a borderline call on Woodward, and the Faithful stand and cheer him off.