Roger and me, a fan’s tale

The passing of New Yorker editor Roger Angell at age 101, stirred up a lot of old memories, baseball memories of course. It occurred to me that not only had Angell and I watched many of the same games on television but we had also been at the same games. One great regret was that I spotted him just up a few stairs during the waning innings of a Cactus League game and as tempted as I was to introduce myself and maybe, just maybe, catch him with some free time to talk about baseball and writing, I opted not to bother him. I had the same opportunities with Bill Veeck and let those pass, too. Out of respect, I think.

Oh well.

Angell was a passionate baseball fan and writer and he would include fans from time to time in his writings — their cares and ups and downs and their special moments of fandom.

I’ve been lucky enough to have been to around 250 baseball games, including a few of the very great ones, Game 7 of the 2001 Series between and Yankees and Diamondbacks, the Ryne Sandberg game where the Cubs came back to beat the Cardinals, and the near-perfect game pitched by Pedro Martinez. I’ve been to plenty of stinkers, too, including a Randy Johnson vs. Roger Clemens matchup at Fenway Park that turned into the dullest, longest game in MLB history. As Yogi would say, in baseball you don’t know nothing.

And I don’t know for sure but I have a feeling Angell and I were at one game on Sept. 8, 2001, in Yankee Stadium. The Red Sox were in town but they hadn’t been playing very well, losing 11 out of 12 and falling out of the race. The house was filling up, but the usual high-energy cloud of anticipation and excitement swirling around the park was absent. David Cone was on the mound for Boston, pitching in what would be his final time there after so many years of being the Yankees staff leader. Angell, I’m sure, recognized that. After all he had written a book on pitching, one with fans in mind, with Cone being the professor breaking down the nuances of his craft. Well, that was what it was supposed to be. The book was compiled a year too late, during Cone’s worst season, and dwelled on a much more human element than pitching grips and stats could ever divulge. It’s a better book.

Anyway, this game was Cone vs Mussina, in a rematch. Cone had pitched scoreless ball into the 9th and lost 1–0 the previous Sunday in Boston, leaving to a standing ovation. Mussina had been one out from a perfect game. An incredible game. As a fan, knowing what I knew about Cone, was that he would want this W badly. Cone was long into his 14th full season by now, 12 of them in New York. His arm and his luck had given about all they were going to give. I was pulling for him. And as this game evolved it would lead to my biggest personal triumph as a fan.

Any rematch excitement that was there fizzled when Tino Martinez took Cone deep for a two run-homer in the first. Cone held on for awhile but Tino connected again, this time a 3-run shot in the 6th, and Cone was done.

Fans seldom take notice of when a losing opposing pitcher is being removed. Almost no one was paying attention this time either, but I stood and I clapped as hard as I could and then spurred the fans around me. “C’Mon! This guy won a lot of big games for you here.”

And so, our section behind the Yankees dugout started to rise and cheer, and the cheering caught on. By the time Cone reached the dugout steps, he was able to tip his cap and take an appreciative peek across a full-house crowd of now-standing, cheering fans. Others in the stands may have realized what was happening just as I did, but I really don’t think so. Outside of the press box, I think I might have been the only one. And Roger, that is.