I never went to a game with Todd Drew. But I can imagine what it would have been like–focused, alert, serious. Todd’s wife Marsha has filled me in on what the experience was like. They’ve been season ticket holders since 2003. In that time, Todd never missed a pitch. He went to the bathroom once before the game and once when it was over. And he kept score. Of course.
Last night I sat in Todd’s seat, a seat he will never see (for those who don’t know, Todd Drew was a contribuor at Bronx Banter who tragically died earlier this year; you can find a collection of his writing on the sidebar). It is located high above home plate, an ideal bird’s-eye view of the field. Fitting, I thought, for Todd to be presiding over the season like this. I could imagine Todd’s kind face, big in the sky like a Bill Gallo drawing.
Diane joined me and there was a good crowd around us. In the fourth inning, one of my dear friends, Johnny Red Sox, came up to me. He just happened to be sitting in the row ahead of us–what are the odds? In Todd’s seats, not so great.
Chien-Ming Wang and John Lannan were a contrast in styles. Wang was deliberate, soporific, while Lannan worked so quickly that he reminded me of the old Billy Crystal routine, where he mimicked ballplayers from the 1920s having a catch. Wang was up against it; if he could not handle the worst team in baseball surely he would not get another start. He wasn’t great but was certainly improved. Adam Dunn launched a solo home run against him in the third, and then Wang was done in by some misfortune in the fourth.
Ramiro Pena, playing for Derek Jeter, dropped a throw from Jorge Posada on a steal. Then, the first base umpire blew a call at first base. We could tell that he missed it from where we were sitting. The jumbotron did not show a replay, but moments later we heard waves of outrage from the areas in the park that did have access to a TV replay. As this was happening, a drunk kid caused a ruckus in the row behind us. Security was called and the dude left without an incident–just some disoriented, angry words. Before it was over, Nick Johnson hit a sinking line drive to left. Melky Cabrera raced in, dove, missed the ball and two runs scored.
Lannan threw strikes and got outs and the game zipped along. Robinson Cano hit a Yankee Stadium homer to break up Lannan’s no-hitter in the fifth, and in the ninth, Johnny Damon added a chippy of his own. With out one, Mark Teixeira singled to left. Brett Gardner replaced him as a pinch-runner and Alex Rodriguez, 0-3 to that point, came to the plate.
I hadn’t thought about Todd for most of the game but now he was present. Todd loved rooting for Rodriguez even more than I do, and I clapped more forcefully, hoping that Rodriguez would deliver. Mike MacDougal came in for Lannan and threw to first three times before Gardner stole second and then third. Rodriguez walked when he checked his swing on a full-count pitch.
First and third, Yanks down by a run, one out in the ninth. They were going to win. Robinson Cano fouled off the first two pitches he saw, took two balls, and then fouled off five or six more. He put good swings on the ball. The crowd was loud, only pausing to hold their breath as each pitch was delivered. I looked around our section at the friends we had made–clapping, rocking in their seats, clutching their hats, gasping at each foul ball–and realized that the meaning of Todd, and of the game, isn’t the outcome.
It is being there.
I felt humbled. Todd will never sit in his seats but he is there with us. The Yankees may not know it, but this is Todd’s season. (And there were plenty of moments to appreciate–two strong innings of relief from Phil Hughes and fine fielding plays by Rodriguez and Cano, and the customary brilliance of Teixeira.) I soaked in the last ten minutes of the game–that’s about how long the Rodriguez and Cano at bats took. My hands hurt from clapping and my heart raced. The excitement rattle through me and wished that I could bottle the sensation. I think it was Carlton Fisk who reflected that the 1978 playoff game between the Yankees and Red Sox should have been suspended when Yaz came to bat. It was a perfect moment, both teams were winners–baseball nirvana.
Last night was a June game pitting one of the best teams in baseball against the worst. Of course I was disappointed when Cano hit into a 6-4-3 double play to end it, but I felt, for those precious moments in the ninth, in touch with why we watch every night, why were are moved, and crazed and driven, and why in the end, baseball matters.
Final Score: ‘Nats 3, Yanks 2.