It’s a fast game, with both aces going right after batters. Old-time hockey, eh? Lou Merloni’s playing third for them, which is just weird. Pokey triples, but we strand him.

In the sixth, Bellhorn doubles. Kapler singles, and Sveum, down two runs with nobody out, holds Bellhorn. Ortiz grounds into a DP, but Bellhorn scores, and then Manny, who owns Sabathia, plants one in the right-field stands to tie the game. Meanwhile, Pedro’s only given up one hit since the first inning.

In the seventh, McCarty’s on first with two down and Pokey at the plate. I tell Steph that Pokey’s going to hit a double to the gap and we’ll get to see big, gangly McCarty come wheeling all the way around. Unlike most of my hip-shot predictions, this one comes true—McCarty pumping his arms like a crazed windmill—and we’ve got the lead. Bellhorn comes up and doubles down the line in right, and Pokey scores easily. 4–2.

Pedro’s been waiting awhile and struggles in the bottom of the inning, putting two on with one out, and who should step in but Lou. I’ve always had a soft spot for Lou, but we need a win here. He grounds one to Pokey—tailor-made double-play ball—and I’m pissed when Bellhorn loses his grip on the transfer. Millar, of all people, bails him out with the glove, making a tough catch in foul ground down the right-field line.

We add a run in the eighth, and on comes Embree to set up and Foulke to close.

May 7th

As the great Criswell predicted, the Yankees did indeed lose. Vazquez faltered in the middle innings, so we’re a game up on them. The buzz is just temporary, since it appears now that Nomar won’t be back till June, and Trot has problems with his left quad and is sitting. “We need those guys,” David Ortiz says, “like a human being needs to be fed every day.”

Last night Steph noticed that Ron Jackson was coaching first. The paper has the answer: Lynn Jones hurt his eye at home in northwestern Pennsylvania. It sounds serious, because Francona says, “There’s a chance they can save some of his eyesight.”

Our league-best record is long gone, obviously, but I’m shocked to find that distinction now belongs to the Angels, with the surprising White Sox right behind them. The season’s so young that one hot streak puts you on top.

Tomorrow we’ve got Monster seats, front row, and I call the Sox customer service line to see if I can bring my fishing net for BP. The woman who answers doesn’t know. She asks around the office; the consensus is that security will probably not let it in, but there’s no set policy. I tell her I’ll try. Got to make them make the play, right?