The Yankee Years Part 11

The Red Sox had lost to the Yankees. Again. Dog bites man. But Epstein saw victory in this defeat.

"We were were bold," Epstein said. "But we still had to be disciplined and focus on value. We did that with our offer. Our goal in player acquisition was to set a value and never get into a free agent bidding war. Don't get in without a strong sense of what our walking away point was. It's almost like a small-market approach to get the most bang for every buck. At the same time, we had showed we had changed. We were really following through on our goal to be really bold and not worry about looking stupid if things didn't work out." bold," Epstein said. "But we still had to be disciplined and focus on value. We did that with our offer. Our goal in player acquisition was to set a value and never get into a free agent bidding war. Don't get in without a strong sense of what our walking away point was. It's almost like a small-market approach to get the most bang for every buck. At the same time, we had showed we had changed. We were really following through on our goal to be really bold and not worry about looking stupid if things didn't work out."

What followed in the immediate wake of the Contreras imbroglio was one of the most fertile and efficient off-seasons in the history of the Red Sox, a haul that would soon make possible the attainment of their Holy Grail, the world championship more than eight decades in the waiting.

The 2002 Red Sox had finished second in the American League in runs and third in on-base percentage, but nonetheless gave far too many at-bats to inefficient hitters such as Tony Clark, Rey Sanchez, Jose Offerman, Carlos Baerga and Shea Hillenbrand. Epstein knew his team needed hitters who were better at getting on base. In the next three months Epstein added designated hitter David Ortiz, first baseman Kevin Millar, second baseman Todd Walker, third baseman Bill Mueller and outfielder Jeremy Giambi while also adding pitchers Mike Timlin and Bronson Arroyo. The seven players cost him a total of three nonprospects from his minor league system and $13 million in salary for the 2003 season. Epstein operated in the manner of an expert serial pickpocket. He was so good the rest of baseball didn't even know what hit them, especially months before Moneyball Moneyball would tip off the old-school guys on what the new-school guys were up to. would tip off the old-school guys on what the new-school guys were up to.

"The quick application of some basic principles yielded immediate results in 2003," Epstein said. "We took a look at the roster and we saw we had superstar talent on the top of the roster. But after our 10 best players there were a lot of areas that needed improvement. We thought if we could get above-league-average players at getting on base we'd be much better off. We needed guys to get on base. We had too many dead spots in our lineup. We also knew at that time you could get guys who got on base inexpensively. You could still find those guys and they were still good values. You can't now. But back then batting average correlated to salary, not on-base percentage. Now it's the opposite. All those guys had great years and had a really dramatic effect on our offense."

Every hitter Epstein obtained in those heists was better than league average at getting on base. Walker (.353 OBP in 2002) and Giambi (.414) were obtained in minor trades. Mueller (.350) was signed as a free agent. Ortiz (.339) was signed for $1.25 million after the Minnesota Twins cut him rather than pay him about that much in arbitration. Millar (.366) was signed after the Florida Marlins had placed him on waivers to allow him to play in j.a.pan; the rest of baseball interpreted those waivers as the necessary formality of a player leaving the States, while the Red Sox saw the move as an opening to grab yet another player who could get on base. Other teams were angered at having been caught napping, or, in their minds, simply respecting the unwritten rules in the game.

"It gets back to our first priority: be bold," Epstein said.

Giambi would break down with injuries, but Walker, Mueller, Ortiz and Millar were major contributors. Epstein's stealth off-season brought an immediate and huge impact. The 2003 Red Sox won the wild card playoff spot with 95 victories (six fewer than New York) and were the greatest slugging team in baseball history, knocking the 1927 Yankees out of the record book with a .491 slugging percentage. They hit a franchise-record 238 home runs and led the league with 961 runs, the second most in franchise history. A club-record six teammates. .h.i.t at least twenty homers: Millar, Ortiz, Manny Ramirez, Jason Varitek, Nomar Garciaparra and Trot Nixon. Of Boston's 95 wins, 40 of them were comeback victories, including 13 in which they had trailed by three runs or more.

"The '03 team had a bunch of guys that just didn't know any better," Epstein said. "It didn't matter how badly we pitched, we knew we could kick your a.s.s and beat the ball around the park."

Within two years, the savvy ownership of the Red Sox had a.s.sembled a true rival to the Yankees with team-building tools and know-how that were ahead of the curve. In 2003, the Red Sox, little more than a cooperative sparring partner for the Yankees during New York's championship years, were good enough and c.o.c.ky enough to push the Yankees to the brink of a tipping point: one game to decide the American League championship, if not the arrival of a new paradigm coming to baseball. One game. It was, quite simply, one of the greatest baseball games ever played.

The Ghosts Make a Final Appearance

David Wells had been a colorful nuisance during his first stint with the Yankees, and the same was true when he rejoined the team in 2002. He might sometimes throw his arms up in burlesque disgust if a teammate made an error behind him, he might quarrel with Torre and pitching coach Mel Stottlemyre, he might let himself get too heavy and he might stay out at night a little too late, but the incidents, even one involving a police report in 2002, mostly could be written off as the incidental cost of his immaturity, like bothersome toll booths on the highway to his usual 17 wins or so. The 2002 incident, for instance, occurred at an East Side diner where a heckling fan punched Wells, knocking out his two front teeth and b.l.o.o.d.ying him. Wells had pitched one of his cla.s.sically efficient games that Friday night, September 6, beating Detroit, 8-1, in a complete game with no walks that took just 2 hours, 28 minutes-all the quicker so Wells could get to the business of trolling the Manhattan bar scene. Wells threw back shots of tequila at a Soho club before heading to the diner for something to eat, not expecting it to be the flying fist of a five-foot-seven diner patron.

Torre called Wells into his office the next day.

"What time did this happen?" he asked Wells.

"It was about a quarter to one or something," Wells said.

It was a boldface lie. Wells apparently forgot that 911 emergency calls, of which he had placed one that night, are dated and placed in public record. "I just got my teeth knocked in, all right?" he barked at the 911 operator during a two-minute screed in which he slurred his words and repeatedly cursed at the operator. "Nine motherf.u.c.king one one," he spat out through his bloodied mouth.

It was soon apparent beyond any doubt that Wells had lied to Torre about when the incident occurred. He was off only by about five hours. Wells had placed his 911 call at 5:49 a.m.

"I had no report at the time to the contrary," Torre said. "I always want to believe my players, but he just out and out lied."

Lying tore at the trust between Torre and his players, which was the very foundation of his entire managerial philosophy. Wells' lie immensely bothered Torre because of that willful destruction. It encroached upon the absolute worst kind of betrayal in Torre's book between a manager and his players: insubordination. In 1981, for instance, Torre was managing the Mets when he and Bob Gibson, his pitching coach, saw two players, Ron Hodges and Dyar Miller, in the bar of the team's hotel, which was off limits to the players.

"Go over and tell them to finish their beer and leave," Torre told Gibson. "I'm not looking to catch people, but just tell them to finish up and go out."

The players told Gibson they would take their time with their beer, thank you. They did not leave.

The next day, Torre called Hodges and Miller into his office. They were joined by Rusty Staub, the respected clubhouse leader, whom Torre invited to have on hand as a witness, as a form of doc.u.mentation. "Guys," Torre told Hodges and Miller, "I'm sending you home. I told the clubhouse guy to get your luggage off the truck. You're not going with us to Philadelphia. You're going home."

As Torre explained, "I hated doing it. But I had to. It was insubordination."

Miller looked in astonishment at Torre and, referring to Mets general manager Frank Cashen, said, "Does Frank know about this?"

"Not until I tell him," Torre said.

Torre told Cashen about it while the two players were on their way back to New York.

Cashen asked Torre the next day, "Do you realize this thing was over one beer?"

"Yep," Torre said.

"If you lift the suspension," Cashen said, "I can have them in Philly in time for the game tonight."

"If I lift the suspension," Torre said, "you might as well take the rules and stick them up your a.s.s."

What Wells did-lying to him face-to-face-was a betrayal of Torre and the Yankees that as the manager saw it walked right up to the line of insubordination.

"That was probably the one incident that came closest to insubordination," Torre said. "But that became an issue for the front office, not under my discipline, because it was a legal matter."

Wells survived the incident, as he always did with the Yankees, with almost no collateral damage. Not only did he make his next start as scheduled, he also won all his starts the rest of the season, going 3-0 with a 1.64 ERA to finish with a team-leading 19 wins.

Wells continually pushed the boundaries of what it meant to be a Yankee. He was a counterculture iconoclastic party boy in the b.u.t.toned-down pinstriped world, the rebel without a pause, but somehow always managed to survive on the strength of his golden left arm. No matter how much Wells drank or cursed or ranted or lied, he was blessed with a rubber arm, and a kind of stealth athleticism that could allow him to repeat his finely balanced delivery, the key to throwing a baseball precisely where he wanted over and over again, as routinely and as exactly as dotting i i's and crossing t t's in the most elegant handwriting imaginable. Wells could wake up Christmas morning in a snowstorm after an all-night bender and paint the outside corner with his fastball. Maybe even blindfolded. His mechanics and his arm were that good.

"When you're on a team that's mature," Torre said, "a guy like David Wells can be a real benefit because he can pitch and everybody understands that, understands that this guy can help us so let's do everything we can to help him. And if it's kissing his a.s.s or whatever it is, let's do it. It depends on the group. It's something you don't know until you get them together and what their makeup is."

According to Mussina, "Boomer was high-maintenance. Boomer was even loud and and high maintenance. And I like Boomer. He's funny. I never took him too seriously. I had no problem playing with him, whatever else happened. I didn't have any problem playing with Boomer." high maintenance. And I like Boomer. He's funny. I never took him too seriously. I had no problem playing with him, whatever else happened. I didn't have any problem playing with Boomer."

At spring training in 2003, however, Wells finally pushed the envelope of his rebellion too far, at least with the front office. He pushed it far enough that not even his golden arm could save him from the wrath of George Steinbrenner. His crime? Wells wrote a book, Perfect I'm Not; Boomer on Beer, Brawls, Backaches and Baseball. Perfect I'm Not; Boomer on Beer, Brawls, Backaches and Baseball. It was an immediate problem for the Yankees when the galley proofs circulated that February. Wells claimed he was "half drunk" when he threw his perfect game in 1998, estimated that up to 40 percent in the big leagues used steroids (a number he reduced to 25 upon the book's release), took some veiled shots at teammates Roger Clemens and Mussina, and said you could stand anywhere in the Yankees clubhouse and be within 10 feet of a supply of amphetamines. Wells could show up teammates on the field, stay out all night long and lie to the manager, but writing a book that impugned the integrity of the Yankee franchise finally put him on ground where Steinbrenner said, "Enough." It became an important episode for Torre, far more significant than the 2002 lying incident, because the shrapnel that flew from the book fallout would forever damage Torre's standing with the front office. It was an immediate problem for the Yankees when the galley proofs circulated that February. Wells claimed he was "half drunk" when he threw his perfect game in 1998, estimated that up to 40 percent in the big leagues used steroids (a number he reduced to 25 upon the book's release), took some veiled shots at teammates Roger Clemens and Mussina, and said you could stand anywhere in the Yankees clubhouse and be within 10 feet of a supply of amphetamines. Wells could show up teammates on the field, stay out all night long and lie to the manager, but writing a book that impugned the integrity of the Yankee franchise finally put him on ground where Steinbrenner said, "Enough." It became an important episode for Torre, far more significant than the 2002 lying incident, because the shrapnel that flew from the book fallout would forever damage Torre's standing with the front office.

Steinbrenner was outraged about the book, and deliberated for a few days about what he should do with Wells. "He's given Darryl Strawberry and Dwight Gooden second chances," Wells told reporters, referring to two former drug users whom Steinbrenner personally signed with the Yankees. "I deserve a second chance."

Steinbrenner summoned Torre to a meeting at Legends Field in Tampa. Torre rode the elevator from the lobby, on the ground floor where the clubhouse was located, to the fourth floor and the executive offices. Torre walked into the conference room and found Steinbrenner with general manager Brian Cashman, a.s.sistant general manager Jean Afterman, chief operating officer Lonn Trost and public relations director Rick Cerrone. Also in the meeting, by way of speakerphone from New York, was president Randy Levine.

Steinbrenner looked at Torre and said, "What do you think we should do about David Wells?"

"What I would do if I were you," Torre told Steinbrenner, "is call him up here and tell him to shut the f.u.c.k up."

"No," Steinbrenner said. "I want you to tell him . . ."

Torre cut him off.

"I'm not telling him anything," Torre said. "This has nothing to do with me. If you have something to say to him, you you say it to him. Simple. It will be over with. Call him up here. Tell him." say it to him. Simple. It will be over with. Call him up here. Tell him."

Torre knew Steinbrenner had a weakness. As often and as easily as Steinbrenner could berate people, he never liked to do so on a one-on-one basis. Said Torre, "He always wanted to do it with two other people there. He wanted to scare you in front of other people." Steinbrenner wanted no part of dealing with Wells himself.

"Here's what I want you to do," Steinbrenner told Torre. "I want you to make him the eleventh pitcher on the staff."

Steinbrenner wanted to punish Wells by taking him out of the starting rotation and banishing him to mop-up duty in the bullpen. The Yankees had been 23-8 when Wells started for them the previous season.

"I can't do that," Torre told Steinbrenner. "I don't like the son of a b.i.t.c.h all that much, but I can't do that. He can still win, and he's still going to help you win ball games."

Steinbrenner and Torre began arguing back and forth, Stein-brenner insisting Torre bury Wells, Torre explaining he would be punishing Wells' teammates if he did that, Steinbrenner telling Torre it was his job to discipline his players, Torre telling Stein-brenner that this was an off-the-field issue that was his responsibility . . . and on and on it went. Until Torre had enough. And Torre had enough not just of this argument about David Wells. He also had enough of Steinbrenner.

"You know what?" Torre told Steinbrenner. "I'm sick and tired of this s.h.i.t. You keep pounding at me, pounding at me, pounding at me . . . It bothers me. I probably shouldn't tell you that. But it bothers me."

Suddenly, the voice of Levine was broadcast over the room via the speakerphone on Steinbrenner's conference room table. Levine started to say something, but Torre immediately cut him off.

"Randy," Torre said, "shut the f.u.c.k up."

The room went silent for just a moment, a small moment, but one packed with awkwardness.

Said Torre, "I found out Randy had been trying to find a way to get rid of me from that moment on. Understood."

Levine wasn't there for the bulk of the championship Yankees seasons. He hopped aboard the championship train only in time for its last stop, joining the club in January of 2000. He had no connection to the rise of the dynasty and the groundwork of trust Torre formed with his players and he had no connection to baseball operations. Levine was there because he was a smart, savvy political operative who knew how to steer the Yankees through the labyrinth of rules, regulations and red tape as they planned the equivalent of the two most mammoth offsh.o.r.e drilling projects to find revenues to keep them at the economic forefront of the next century: the launch of their own regional sports network and the construction of a new Yankee Stadium.

Levine knew how to get things done in New York City. Before joining the Yankees he served as the city's Deputy Mayor for Economic Development, Planning and Administration. He was a graduate of George Washington University and Hofstra School of Law. Levine quickly became an important force with the Yankees, providing a daily presence in New York while Steinbrenner spent more and more time in Tampa. Reporters learned to tap him for leaks, someone who anonymously would push the Yankee agenda as Steinbrenner slowly retreated from feeding the tabloids, the art of the leak a skill Levine sharpened in politics as one of Mayor Rudy Giuliani's most trusted advisers.

Levine's political bearings clashed with Torre's emphasis on organizational and personal trust. Torre believed an organization operated at peak efficiency only when all relationships were built on trust and that the shared vision of winning overrode, even muted, individual agendas. He believed in people. But too often Torre cringed at the quickness and coldness with which the Yankees on Levine's watch could turn against one of their own. The Yankees' reaction to a player in crisis often included exploring the possibility of getting out from under the responsibility of having to pay the player. They sometimes sought to excise wounds, not heal them. Among those about whom they were quick to investigate contractual relief starting in 2000 were Bubba Trammell, an outfielder suffering from depression who, unannounced, simply did not show up for work one day; Chuck k.n.o.blauch, who wanted to quit because of a mental block about throwing the ball from second base; Jason Giambi, because of his reported BALCO grand jury testimony in which he admitted steroid use; Carl Pavano, who seemed to look for reasons not to pitch and didn't tell the Yankees about two cracked ribs suffered in an auto accident; Kevin Brown, who broke his hand in a fit of anger; and Johnny Damon, because of his retirement thoughts caused by a kind of battle fatigue.

The most infamous and longest-lasting case of the Yankees turning against one of their own involved Giambi. On the day after Giambi's grand jury testimony was reported by the San Francisco Chronicle San Francisco Chronicle in 2004, the newspapers were awash in leaks from the Yankees that they already were investigating the possibility of voiding his contract. The same scenario occurred in 2007 when Giambi implicated himself in steroid use by telling a reporter he was part of a playing culture that "was wrong for doing that stuff." (Of course, the legal ground upon which the Yankees were standing seemed as unstable as a sinkhole, considering they specifically removed the word in 2004, the newspapers were awash in leaks from the Yankees that they already were investigating the possibility of voiding his contract. The same scenario occurred in 2007 when Giambi implicated himself in steroid use by telling a reporter he was part of a playing culture that "was wrong for doing that stuff." (Of course, the legal ground upon which the Yankees were standing seemed as unstable as a sinkhole, considering they specifically removed the word steroid steroid from his contract when they signed him, changing the language to more generic references such as from his contract when they signed him, changing the language to more generic references such as controlled substance, controlled substance, in the belief, they said, that broader language offered them better liability protection.) in the belief, they said, that broader language offered them better liability protection.) Indeed, the desire to get out from under Giambi and his contract would bubble between 2004 and 2007 just about every time Giambi wasn't hitting or was hurt. During one such time, Torre said, Levine tried to see if the Yankees could cut Giambi without pay on the grounds of insubordination for refusing an a.s.signment to the minor leagues. "Cash told him, 'We can't do that,' " Torre said.

During another front office campaign against Giambi, the team physician, Dr. Stuart Hershon, would walk into Torre's office on a daily basis to say why Giambi was available to play.

"He would come down, with word from George and Randy, to find out why Jason wasn't playing," Torre said. "He looked very uneasy."

"He's able to play," the doctor told Torre one day. "He can play."

"I know," Torre said. "I'm choosing not to play him."

Said Torre, "It appeared that they wanted the fact that he was refusing to play to come out of that. They never asked me to say Jason in fact refused to play. They never included me in any discussions. I just didn't think he was one of our best options at the time."

For a third straight day Hershon poked his head into Torre's office to again find out what was going on with Giambi. It would be the last such day.

"You know, Doc?" Torre said. "Get the f.u.c.k out of my office. I don't want to hear it anymore. If George has a problem with it, fine. But don't tell me who to play. Stay out of my office."

Torre always did hate confrontations, probably because he grew up in an abusive household under the iron fist of his father, Joe Sr. But he loathed nearly as much as confrontations the damage people could do by scheming covertly.

"The thing I can't stand, and I guess it goes on in a lot of businesses, is when stuff goes on behind people's backs," Torre said. "If something needs to be addressed, I address it. As much as I hate confrontation, I have to do it. Avoiding it is torture. I remember when I was managing St. Louis, and I had a meeting with Kenny Hill, a pitcher, and said, 'You seem to get to a point in a game where you seem to lose your focus.' And then he said, 'Well, Tom Pagnozzi, he does this and he does that . . .' Pagnozzi was the catcher. I said, 'Whoa. Timeout. Tommy, come over here.'

"Kenny Hill was mortified, because here I am calling over the catcher he was talking about. I said, 'Let's get this thing solved. We're not going to hurt each other's feelings. Let's find a way to make this better by working together.' But that's what I do. I bring players in."

The 2003 spring training meeting over Wells at Legends Field with Levine, Steinbrenner, Cashman, Torre and others ended without a resolution. Indeed, it took Steinbrenner and the Yankees two weeks to come to a resolution about what to do. Wells clearly was bothered by the criticism fired at him from inside and outside the organization over the book. On February 28, before a spring training game in Clearwater against the Phillies, Wells told Torre and Cashman that he wanted to quit.

"David," Torre told Wells, "your name is on the book."

"I didn't know that stuff was in there," he said.

"David, did you go over the pages in the book? Did you do any of that?"

"No."

"Well, I don't know what to tell you."

"I'm going to quit."

Torre knew Wells was speaking out of frustration. Torre had been here before-listening to a hardened, admired big league player with world cla.s.s skills and millions of dollars tell him he wanted to quit. Wells followed k.n.o.blauch and would precede others among those Yankees who reached a breaking point and wanted to walk away from baseball. All of them were reminders of the frailty of the human spirit, even among the physically strong and the sports celebrities considered to "have it all" and to be living the charmed life. Wells was highly emotional when he met with Torre and Cashman.

"Don't quit," Torre told Wells. "Just don't quit. Go home now and come back tomorrow. Just think about it. n.o.body wants you to quit. You just have to talk to these players and do what you have to do to apologize to them to make this whole. But don't just quit. You've got too much to offer."

Wells stuck around. The Yankees, after negotiations with Wells' agent, settled on fining Wells $100,000. A short time later, Sports Ill.u.s.trated Sports Ill.u.s.trated arranged a photo shoot at Legends Field for what would be the cover of the magazine's baseball preview issue. The idea would be to pose Steinbrenner surrounded by the Yankees' six starting pitchers to whom he was paying a combined $46.5 million: Roger Clemens, Andy Pett.i.tte, Mike Mussina, David Wells, Jeff Weaver and Jose Contreras. Wells refused to be included, still smarting from the book contretemps but also because he had accused arranged a photo shoot at Legends Field for what would be the cover of the magazine's baseball preview issue. The idea would be to pose Steinbrenner surrounded by the Yankees' six starting pitchers to whom he was paying a combined $46.5 million: Roger Clemens, Andy Pett.i.tte, Mike Mussina, David Wells, Jeff Weaver and Jose Contreras. Wells refused to be included, still smarting from the book contretemps but also because he had accused SI SI in the past of doctoring an action shot of him to make him appear fatter (a wildly inaccurate accusation, of course). "You Can't Have Too Much Pitching (Just Ask George)" read the cover. in the past of doctoring an action shot of him to make him appear fatter (a wildly inaccurate accusation, of course). "You Can't Have Too Much Pitching (Just Ask George)" read the cover.

"So there it was: me, Andy, Roger, Weaver, Contreras and George, and not even Boomer in the picture," Mussina said. "Now, I don't know what else you want for a staff, but that's about as good as it goes. That's as good a group of people as I probably ever had a chance to play with."

So stacked were the Yankees with starting pitchers that their number six six starter (Weaver and Contreras shuttled between the fifth spot and long relief) could have been the number one starter on many other teams. They were as good as advertised. Clemens, Pett.i.tte, Wells and Mussina all pitched more than 200 innings, marking only the 12th time in franchise history the Yankees had four such workhorses, but the first time ever in the era of the five-man rotation. All four won at least 15 games with only single-digit losses, making the 2003 Yankees rotation one of only 12 in baseball history to be so successful; the only other Yankees rotations in that group occurred way back in 1927 and 1932. The staff issued the fewest walks per game of any Yankees team since 1906. starter (Weaver and Contreras shuttled between the fifth spot and long relief) could have been the number one starter on many other teams. They were as good as advertised. Clemens, Pett.i.tte, Wells and Mussina all pitched more than 200 innings, marking only the 12th time in franchise history the Yankees had four such workhorses, but the first time ever in the era of the five-man rotation. All four won at least 15 games with only single-digit losses, making the 2003 Yankees rotation one of only 12 in baseball history to be so successful; the only other Yankees rotations in that group occurred way back in 1927 and 1932. The staff issued the fewest walks per game of any Yankees team since 1906.

Torre always believed the blueprint for a championship team began with the rotation, and the 2003 Yankees represented one of Torre's strongest staffs. His starters threw 1,066 innings that year, the most in his 12 years with the Yankees, and won 83 games, exceeded only by the historic 1998 team. The 2003 Yankees rolled to 101 victories and had the pitching to extend the dynasty to what would have been a fifth world championship in eight years. Alas, they fell two wins short of the t.i.tle, losing to the 91-win Florida Marlins team that ran into a hot spell at the right time.

That the Yankees even made it to the 2003World Series was in itself a memorable achievement. It took every game and every inning of the American League Championship Series, and then some, at that. It took a kind of noise and a kind of intense emotion the likes of which never quite before or after ever shook the grand old stadium. It took one of the greatest baseball games ever played. It took what would be the last miracle in the Bronx.

On October 16, 2003, a Thursday, United States defense secretary Donald Rumsfeld composed an internal memo to his top advisers, under the subject heading "Global War on Terrorism," in which he wrote, "It is pretty clear that the coalition can win in Afghanistan and Iraq in one way or another, but it will be a long, hard slog." That same Thursday, President Bush met privately in a hotel suite with California governor-elect Arnold Schwarzenegger. Had the same men convened only thirteen years earlier you would have been talking about a meeting with slightly less gravitas, considering it would have been the man running the Texas Rangers baseball team chatting up the star of Kindergarten Cop. Kindergarten Cop. The world on October 16, 2003, could seem as confusing and changeable as ever, and perhaps nowhere else more so than at an empty Fenway Park in Boston. For on that morning grounds crew workers carefully painted the 2003 World Series logo on the gra.s.s behind home plate. The World Series was scheduled to begin two nights hence in the home park of the American League champion. As the workers at Fenway rolled and brushed the paint on Fenway's lush turf, there was one small detail yet to be worked out before the festivities: the Red Sox still had to play Game 7 of the American League Championship Series at Yankee Stadium that night against the Yankees. The world on October 16, 2003, could seem as confusing and changeable as ever, and perhaps nowhere else more so than at an empty Fenway Park in Boston. For on that morning grounds crew workers carefully painted the 2003 World Series logo on the gra.s.s behind home plate. The World Series was scheduled to begin two nights hence in the home park of the American League champion. As the workers at Fenway rolled and brushed the paint on Fenway's lush turf, there was one small detail yet to be worked out before the festivities: the Red Sox still had to play Game 7 of the American League Championship Series at Yankee Stadium that night against the Yankees.

The Red Sox no longer looked the role of the cartoon coyote against the Yankees. They had grown into a rival of the most authentic, worthy and anxiety-inducing sort. And Torre knew it. Hours before Game 7, Torre sat in his office at Yankee Stadium and wondered if the Yankees could beat Boston one more time, as agonizing and draining as he knew even the victories had been against the Red Sox.

"Oh, they were better than us in '03," Torre said. "Let's put it this way: they scared me more than they ever did before. Of course, they always scared me. You can't help it when it's the Red Sox. But eventually you say to yourself, 'When is this s.h.i.t going to end? How long do we keep beating them before the law of averages catches up to us?'

"Growing up in New York, I knew about the wars between the Dodgers and Giants 22 times a year. But not being personally involved in it, other than as a fan, I had never experienced anything like the whole Red SoxYankees thing. It was personal. I mean, Don Mattingly said he didn't want his son to be drafted by the Red Sox. That's how deep-seated it is. It becomes personal among the players."

Mel Stottlemyre, Torre's trusted pitching coach, stepped into Torre's office before Game 7.

"You've got Moose in the bullpen tonight," Stottlemyre said.

Said Torre, "I've got everybody in the bullpen tonight."

Mike Mussina, "Moose," had started and lost Game 4 three days earlier. Mussina had pitched well, taking the ball two outs into the seventh inning, but Boston starter Tim Wakefield had pitched better. Mussina left with a 3-1 deficit in a game the Red Sox would win 3-2, a game in which Boston manager Grady Little pulled Tim Wakefield after seven innings and 100 pitches so relievers Mike Timlin and Scott Williamson could get the final six outs. Mussina had appeared in 431 games in his professional career entering Game 7, postseasons included. None one of those 431 appearances came out of the bullpen.

"We might use you out of the pen," Stottlemyre had told Mussina. "But if we do, we won't bring you into the middle of an inning. We'll only have you start an inning. That way you'll have plenty of time to warm up."

_One of the beauties of baseball is its forgiveness. There is always another at-bat, another game, another chance to right a wrong, and those redemptive opportunities, unlike in other sports, are made possible on a daily basis. A team plays 162 games in 181 days. A batter will get 600 chances. A pitcher will face 900 batters. A season will offer 750,000 pitches. The sheer volume of opportunity is what gives the game its rhythm and soul.

Until you get a Game 7.

Game 7 flips baseball inside out, replacing near-endless opportunity with urgency. Injected with a heavy dose of finality, baseball in a Game 7 scenario is thrillingly different. There have been only 47 decisive Game 7s played in the history of baseball. None were ever more antic.i.p.ated, none were more fraught with tension and ill will, than Game 7 of the 2003 American League Championship Series. The starting pitchers alone guaranteed something historic, if not downright dangerous. The Yankees started Roger Clemens. The Red Sox gave the ball to Pedro Martinez. Between them Clemens and Martinez had won 476 games in the major leagues, a record total for any Game 7 pitching matchup. They had combined to win nine Cy Young Awards. They were not only among the best pitchers of their generation, they also were among the most feared. Both Clemens and Martinez used the baseball not just to beat you but to intimidate you. They threw at and near batters regularly with a frontier justice mentality, the kind of machismo that mostly had disappeared from the game. Clemens liked to use a euphemism for such intimidation tactics; he called it "moving a batter's feet," and he would say so with the matter-of-fact casualness a.s.sociated with moving someone's furniture. Martinez, meanwhile, quickly had developed such a reputation for throwing at batters that one of them once charged the mound certain that Pedro had hit him on purpose-a pitch thrown with a perfect game intact. Morever, Martinez and Clemens never cared much for each other.

Already Game 3 at Fenway Park in Boston had proved the explosive properties at play when you mixed the Yankees and Red Sox and Clemens and Martinez. The two aces started that game and considerable mayhem. The Yankees did not like Martinez, so much so that when Martinez later became a free agent following the 2004 season, several of them would go out of their way to tell Torre the Yankees should stay clear of him.

"When he was a free agent there was some idle chatter about him coming to the Yankees, but there was genuine dislike from our players," Torre said. "They didn't want him around and they told me so. We didn't like him. We didn't like him for a reason. I mean, he would get away with throwing at people. There was one game in New York where he hit Soriano and Jeter back to back and put them both in the hospital.

"This is a guy who can put the ball where he wants. And he certainly has the right mentality: that if you're going to pitch somebody in, you miss in and hit them. I don't see anything wrong with it. It's better than missing over the plate and the guy hits a home run. That's what you try to teach and not a lot of guys can do that. We used to hate Clemens for the same reason when he was on another team."