Last night after the game was called, Pedro mouthed off to reporters about his lack of a contract. He’s pissed at the Red Sox for spreading rumors about his shoulder to drive his price down around the league. He says that he’s decided to go free agent after the season, and that, if the situation’s right, he could see signing with the Yankees. (All this I pick up from the Courant; later, when I see him making comments at his locker on TV, he says, “I want the fans to know my heart is here in Boston. I want to finish in Boston.” He shrugs. “But I have to make a living.” None of this is in the paper.) He also makes reference to Larry Lucchino’s tenure with the Orioles, when they went from being a contender to a second-rate club. “Who was behind the Orioles?” he asks. “I’m not going to mention any names.”

It’s bad timing, with the Sox riding so high. Usually I’ll stick up for Petey, but in this case all a fan has to do is look at Dauber or McCarty or Crespo. There are a lot of guys on this team who are just glad to be here, and rightfully so.

Jon Lieber’s glad to be back pitching for the Yanks. He’s the one wearing Roger Clemens’s #22. Maybe it’s an act of faith on the Yankees’ part. It’s unnecessary today; Lieber gets tons of run support and the Bombers whomp Tony Pena’s struggling Royals 12–4.

I only catch the first inning of Game 1 against Texas before we go out to see Kill Bill, Vol. 2. By the time we get back, Game 1’s over, and we’ve lost 4–3. Arroyo threw well, but the pen finally gave up some runs (it was just a matter of time; you can’t throw scoreless ball forever). Williamson gave up the big hits, but it’s Mystery Malaska, who faced only one batter, who gets the L. Manny, suddenly going cold, K’d four times.

I figure we’ll get the split, with Pedro taking on green Joaquin Benoit, but Petey’s awful from the start, giving up an opposite-field job to Hank Blalock in the first, then melting down in a 5-run third. Every pitch is up, nothing’s working, as if he jinxed himself with last night’s hissy fit. “Payyydro,” the sparse crowd taunts. He’s gone after four, and DiNardo’s on for some garbage time. The final’s 8–5, but it was never that close.

May 2nd