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That is the backdrop for my fantasy day in sports. The day would be a September Saturday. The Yankees would be at Fenway Park against my Red Sox. (Even writers are fans of something, folks, and I'm a sick Red Sox fan, having been infected with the disease by my southpaw father in the days of Yaz and Lonborg.) Roger Clemens at Pedro Martinez, 1 p.m. I'd start the day at a Starbucks in Back Bay, having a latte and a sesame bagel with Pedro. "The key today,'' Pedro would say over his decaf double espresso and Krispy Kreme glazed donut, "is staying offspeed. When I'm good, I throw only 20 or 25 fastballs in each start. I need to set up my pitches to these guys so that I can fool them on 3-1, 3-2 counts.'' I'd leave Pedro at the park around 10, and go to a Yankees hitters' meeting in their cramped clubhouse. For 30 minutes Joe Torre and the hitters would talk confidently about waiting for the fastball through all the other junk Pedro throws. The game. I'd watch in the seat next to Jimy Williams, or on the step next to him in the dugout. That's my idea of a good day. Now for the night: Dinner at a corner table in Legal Seafood with Roger Clemens. We'd talk pitching. We'd talk defection from Boston. After dinner I'd have beers with Red Sox I admire: Nomar Garciaparra, Jason Varitek, Trot Nixon, Darren Lewis. Pros who play the game hard and with some obvious respect and affection. In the coolish Indian Summer night, I'd walk back to my hotel with a Romeo y Julieta cigar and think: It can't get any better than this. |
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