ALL night long there was the scent of blood in the air, a feeling of raw, visceral fury. There was a stadium packed with Yankees fans, and they had a rare daily double in front of them this time – most hated opposing team, most hated opposing player – lying vulnerable on a night when both could be sent screeching hard against the abyss.
All night long, there was Pedro Martinez, trying his best to keep his ballclub alive, keep them from toeing the darkness. And all night long, there was Yankee Stadium, firing their salvos, using 56,000 voices as cannon fire.
“Who’s your daddy?”
“Who’s your daddy?”
These have become more than baseball games. They are sit-ins. They are chant-ins. They are events that somehow supercede all that is the Red Sox and the Yankees, which is a staggering thing to comprehend when you consider the enormity of the Red Sox and the Yankees.
Only Pedro Martinez can do this. Only Pedro Martinez has the capacity to draw out of Yankees fans the most vile angels of their nature. It isn’t enough on these nights for the Yankees to win, which is why it wasn’t near enough in the bottom of the sixth inning when the Yankees were nursing a 1-0 lead that Jon Lieber seemed intent on protecting all the way to Christmas if he had to.
No. They wanted more. They’d been filling the Bronx night with thunder and rage from the moment Martinez peeked his head out of the dugout last night, walking slowly toward left field to begin warming up. That was when the chant began in earnest, one that Pedro had hand-delivered a few weeks ago.
“Who’s your daddy?”
“Who’s your daddy?”
They did it again when he came out for the first inning, and this time he had an answer for them, pointing to the sky and smiling. It only reminded everyone that Martinez is no pushover, no shrinking violet, that he wouldn’t be pushed around by angry voices even after he was behind 1-0 three batters into his work shift, staring at the heart of Yankees order with two men on.
That’s when he promptly struck out Hideki Matsui and Bernie Williams, and retired Jorge Posada. And that’s when we were reminded that for all the foolishness Martinez brings to these games sometimes, he is a hell of a gutsy pitcher. He didn’t have close to his best stuff, probably didn’t even have the kind of stuff Curt Schilling had a night earlier, when the Yankees had cuffed him around but good.
Somehow, it was good enough to buy his way to the sixth, when he made his first and only mistake of the night, grooving a fastball that John Olerud lost in the right-field stands. From the moment it left Olerud’s bat Martinez hung his head, understanding what was coming next.
“Who’s your daddy?”
“Who’s your daddy?”
Understanding, undoubtedly, unquestionably, that throwing his heart onto the field wasn’t going to be enough, not on a night when Jon Lieber was pasting the scoreboard with zeroes. Not even on a night when he’d allow the Yankees only four hits and four walks, striking out seven, mostly relying on his breaking stuff for his out pitch.
No, he threw 113 pitches on the night, and 56,136 people tried to will every one of them out of the park. Eventually they got their wish. Eventually they got Martinez out of the game, and they got themselves to the last inning with Mariano Rivera again.
Best of all, they not only got Martinez up against the ropes, they have the Red Sox there, too. Not dead, not yet, not until they give one up at Fenway. But awfully close.
