Change-up: Mystery at the World Series

9: SILENT TREATMENT

IT TOOK SEVERAL MINUTES to make their way through the crowds to the locker room area, which, unlike in the newer ballparks, was not on a separate level where there was no public access. The media had to stand against a wall so that fans could pass by on their way out of the ballpark.

As planned, Stevie went first to the interview room to meet Bobby Kelleher and the other Herald staffers at the game. They would discuss their postgame plans-who would write which stories. There wasn’t much doubt what the story of the game was: Norbert Doyle.

Kelleher, who had taken the elevator from the main press box along with Nationals beat writer Doug Doughty, was waiting in the back of the room when Stevie walked in. Susan Carol had gone to wait outside the Nationals clubhouse, having already talked to Tamara Mearns by cell phone.

“Nice of Doyle to turn what was a decent news story into a made-for-TV movie, wasn’t it?” Kelleher said when he spotted Stevie.

“What happens with my story now?” Stevie asked, then realized he was being selfish thinking about that first.

“Good question, actually,” Kelleher said. “I already talked to the desk. They’re going to insert a couple of paragraphs up high about how Doyle pitched tonight, but leave most of the game description for the game story and my column.” He smiled. “There is one other change.”

“What’s that?”

“The story was inside the Sports section for the early edition. Next edition it’s on the front page.”

“Of the Sports section, right?”

“Of the newspaper,” Kelleher said. “You did it again, kid.”

Stevie felt good about that, although he knew he’d backed into the A1 story. Still, like Doyle in the eighth inning, he didn’t mind catching a break or two.

“So what’s my sidebar now?” he said, hearing a microphone being tested in the background. Deadline was closing in.

“Wil Nieves,” Kelleher said. “He’s a good story in himself-journeyman catcher, up and down from the minors his whole life. He was Mike Mussina’s personal catcher for a while in ’07. Doyle pitches kind of like Mussina-changes speeds, good control, doesn’t throw hard. Plus, Wil’s a good guy. You may have to wait him out a little bit, though, because a lot of people are going to want to talk to him about the last play at the plate.”

“And you’ll do Doyle?”

Kelleher grunted. “Everybody will be doing Doyle,” he said. “He’ll come in here first, which will be okay. It will be a mob scene when he goes back to that tiny clubhouse and all the columnists want to talk to him some more.”

“Columnists like you?”

“Yup. This guy is now officially the story of this World Series-maybe even if he never throws another pitch.”

“He’ll pitch again after tonight, won’t he?”

“Oh, he’ll pitch game six or game seven,” Kelleher said. “But there’s no guarantee there will be a game six or a game seven. Who knows? Maybe the Nats will win in five.”

Now that, Stevie thought, would be a storybook ending.

Assignment in hand, Stevie made his way back down the hallway in the direction of the Nationals clubhouse. He couldn’t help but notice how quiet the walkway under the third-base stands was-especially when compared with the night before, when the Red Sox fans had been celebrating winning game one.

He wasn’t the only one who noticed. “The silence is deafening, isn’t it?” said Jeff Arnold, another writer for the Herald. His assignment was to talk to Austin Kearns about his throw on the last play.

“I guess they’re surprised,” Stevie said as they fell into the back of the media line waiting to get into the clubhouse.

“Not surprised, stunned,” Arnold said. “It’s funny how things change. Once, Red Sox fans expected disaster in October. But they’ve gotten used to winning now. This is the first time they’ve lost a World Series game since 1986.”

Stevie hadn’t thought about it that way. The Red Sox had swept the World Series in both 2004 and 2007 and had won the opener in this one. There had been years when they weren’t in the Series, but lately, when they got there, they were unbeatable.

The line was barely moving in the direction of the door. “Why is it so slow?” Stevie said. “It only took a few minutes to get into the Sox clubhouse last night.”

“The security guy on the visiting clubhouse here is a real pain in the neck,” Arnold said. “He looks at every pass as if it must be fake, does everything but ask your blood type. I guarantee he’ll give you a hard time.”

Stevie shrugged. Security guards never seemed to believe someone his age could actually be accredited to cover events like the Final Four and the U.S. Open tennis tournament. He steeled himself as he followed Arnold to the clubhouse door, which was blocked by a burly man who was-as Arnold had predicted-checking every pass as if the secret to happiness were written there in code.

Arnold survived inspection and stopped just inside the door. “What are you waiting for?” the guard snarled, looking over his shoulder while Stevie waited for his inspection.

“The young man there and I are partners,” Arnold said. “I’m waiting on him.”

The guard turned back toward Stevie, grabbed his pass-which was around his neck-looked at it, and then looked back at Stevie.

“How old are you?” he asked in an accusatory tone. Stevie wanted to ask if he questioned the age of everyone who walked through the door, but he took the easy way out instead and just said, “I’m fourteen.”

“Fourteen and you have a press pass? How’d that happen?”

That probably warranted a wise-guy answer, but he heard a voice behind him saying, “He’s got a press pass because he’s a first-rate reporter, Bill. And if you paid any attention to anything except proving you’re in charge here for fifteen minutes a night, you’d know who he is.”

Stevie looked behind him and saw Bob Ryan, the Boston Globe’s star columnist. Given the guard’s bullying attitude, Stevie thought Ryan was taking a major chance standing up for him. Then again, this was Boston, and he was Bob Ryan.

“I really don’t need you giving me a hard time here, Bob,” Bill said, but the snarl was gone from his voice.

“And we really don’t need you holding up the line when we’re all on deadline,” Ryan answered. “Arnold and I have both told you the kid’s legit, he’s got a pass, let’s go!”

Bill hesitated. Clearly, he didn’t want to concede that he was wrong and Ryan was right. Just as clearly, he had to know that picking a fight with Bob Ryan wasn’t a great idea.

“All right, Bob, on your word I’ll let it go for now. But I’m going to check this out.”

“Yeah, you should do that,” Ryan said. “And then you can apologize to the kid for doubting him.”

Bill reluctantly stepped aside to let Stevie and Ryan pass.

“Thanks, Mr. Ryan,” Stevie said. “I really appreciate your help.”

Ryan shook his head. “The Red Sox should have fired the guy years ago.”

He headed off, and Stevie began making his way into the tiny locker area of the clubhouse. He stood for a moment getting his bearings, looking for Wil Nieves’s locker.

“Who you looking for, Steve?”

It was John Dever, the Nationals’ PR guy.

“Nieves,” he said.

“Right there, somewhere in the middle of all those people,” Dever said, pointing to a locker in the corner of the room.

Stevie nodded his thanks and moved to the outside of the circle. At that moment he couldn’t see or hear Nieves. He would have to be patient. The TV crews would push their way forward first, cameramen using the sheer bulk of their equipment to forge a path. They would get their sound bites and move away, and the circle would grow smaller. It was late at night, so almost everyone was on deadline. Stevie knew he would get close to Nieves eventually if he just waited the others out.

He looked at his watch. He was in pretty good shape. Because it had been a low-scoring game, it had taken only two and a half hours to play, lightning fast for a postseason baseball game, given the length of the commercials between half innings. It was now 11:20, and he didn’t have to file until the Herald’s 12:45 a.m. deadline. Stevie knew he could write eight hundred words in forty-five minutes, so as long as he was upstairs in the media workroom at his computer by midnight, he would be okay.

A couple of TV crews came out of the circle, and everyone else moved closer. Now Stevie could hear a little of what Nieves was saying.

“Every pitch was where we wanted it to be,” he said with a slight, though noticeable, Spanish accent. “The first six innings I could have put my glove down and closed my eyes because the ball was going to be right where I put it.”

That was a good line, and Stevie turned his body so he could scratch some notes down while still leaning in to try to hear. What he really wanted was to get Nieves to talk about Doyle off the field, since they had played together in the minors and he probably knew him as well as anyone on the team. Doyle had mentioned that to Stevie over breakfast, which felt like it had taken place about a month ago.

More people moved out of the circle. Now Stevie could actually see Nieves, who was sitting on a chair, still in uniform, streaks of sweat and dirt running across his shirt. There was still an ESPN crew that hadn’t finished up. The guy holding the mike, whom Stevie didn’t recognize, asked Nieves if he felt vindicated playing in the World Series after the Yankees had released him. Typical TV question, Stevie thought. It had nothing to do with the game, and if you looked at Nieves’s statistics, it was easy to understand why he’d been released. Before 2008 he’d never come close to hitting.200 in a season.

Nieves apparently felt the same way. “I don’t blame them for releasing me,” he said. “They traded for a guy who was better than I was. But I’ve improved my hitting the last two years, and that’s why I was able to stick with this team.”

Stevie already liked Nieves. He sounded like he was smart and honest. He didn’t give cliché answers. The ESPN crew finally moved away, and Stevie was behind only a handful of guys with notebooks. It was 11:35. Still in good shape.

There were more questions about Doyle’s control and his stamina near the end of the game. Nieves had clearly been through this already, but he understood that the media came in waves, often with repeat questions. He patiently answered the questions again. More guys moved away. Now it was only Stevie and three other guys. One, whose credential identified him as Tom Stinson from the Atlanta Journal-Constitution, asked the question Stevie had wanted to ask: “You and Doyle were in Triple-A ball together early this season and a few years ago when you were both in the Padres organization. Do you know him pretty well?”

Nieves smiled, then shook his head. “I probably know him as well as anybody. But that’s not saying much.”

That got Stevie’s attention. The four reporters all stayed quiet, waiting for Nieves to continue. Stevie was thankful there were no TV people around, because undoubtedly one of them would have plowed through the brief silence and asked something lame.

Seeing that no one was saying anything, Nieves shrugged. “Look, I’m not saying Norbert’s not a good guy. He’s a really good guy. Just quiet, very quiet.”

Stinson followed up: “Is he shy?” he asked.

Nieves thought for a moment. “I wouldn’t say shy,” he said. “He always seems to have a lot on his mind. He’s friendly, I’m sure you guys have talked to him. But for the most part, he keeps to himself. I just always thought he was, well, kind of sad, to be honest.

“Maybe it’s raising two kids by himself, that can’t be easy. Tonight when we got in here, before they let you guys in, everyone was pounding him on the back because he pitched such an amazing game, and he just kind of smiled, said thank you, and asked John Dever when he had to go to the interview room. That’s the way he’s been as long as I’ve known him. Joy doesn’t seem to be his thing.”

Stevie had been right about Nieves. He was clearly very perceptive and very honest-surprisingly honest, especially in a locker room situation. Stinson started to ask another question, but all of a sudden Stevie saw a microphone pop up in Nieves’s face and noticed a cameraman sticking his lens right over his shoulder.

“Wil, you guys have to be thrilled to go back to Washington tied at one game all,” the guy with the microphone said, asking an answer, something Stevie had gotten used to seeing TV people do a lot.

Nieves looked startled by the interruption, but he politely answered the question. The guy started to ask another question. Apparently, that was enough for Stinson.

“Hold it,” he said. “Wil was talking to the four of us, and you just barge in here and interrupt. You need to wait until we’re done, which will be about another minute.”

He didn’t shout, but his tone was firm.

“Hey, pal, I’m on deadline here,” the TV guy said.

“Just like everyone else,” Stinson said.

The TV guy turned from Stinson and asked another question. This time Nieves didn’t have a chance to answer because Stinson put his hand right over the microphone and stepped in front of Nieves.

“Your choice,” he said to the TV guy. “Wait sixty seconds, or we can stand here and both blow deadline.”

The TV guy started screaming profanities at Stinson and tried to grab the microphone back from him. Stevie saw the cameraman start to reach toward Stinson with his free hand. Without thinking, Stevie blocked the guy’s arm, throwing him off balance.

“Hey, what the hell do you think you’re doing?” the camera guy said, stumbling backward and almost dropping his camera.

Before Stevie could answer, Stan Kasten, the president of the Nationals, whom Stevie had noticed walking around the clubhouse when he came in, materialized, stepping between Stevie and the camera guy.

“Hey, fellas, you aren’t supposed to fight each other, you’re supposed to fight guys like me,” Kasten said, smiling. “Let’s all get along here.”

The TV guy was yelling at Kasten about Stinson’s not letting him do his job. Kasten had been the president of the Braves for almost twenty years and apparently knew Stinson. “Tell me in ten seconds or less what happened, Tommy,” he said.

“Sure,” Stinson said. “The four of us were talking to Wil, and this guy barged in, stuck the microphone in Wil’s face, and went off on a tangent that had nothing to do with what we were talking about.”

“Free country,” the TV guy said.

“He’s right, Stan,” Nieves said, much to Stevie’s surprise. He had watched the scuffle with a bemused smile on his face. “These guys were almost done when he interrupted.”

“ Norman,” Kasten said to the TV guy, “when these guys are done, I will personally escort you back over here to talk to Wil.”

Stevie noticed that everything in the clubhouse had stopped so people could watch what was going on. In fact, he noticed several TV cameras rolling on the scene.

“But-”

“It’s that or nothing,” Kasten said. “Your call.”

The TV guy slunk away. As he turned to follow, the cameraman said to Stevie, “I’ll find you later.”

“Oh please,” Stevie said, even though a chill went through him. “What’re you going to do, hit me with your camera?”

He turned back to Nieves only to find that the circle had now grown, with others wanting to hear Nieves’s version of what had just happened. Stinson was standing next to him. “Well, I guess that takes care of getting anything more from him tonight,” he said. “You can’t win. You don’t say anything, you lose the flow of the interview completely. You do say something, you lose the interview anyway.” He put out his hand: “We haven’t met. Tom Stinson from Atlanta. Thanks for helping me out there.”

“Steve Thomas,” Stevie answered. “I’m sorry the guy interrupted. That was pretty good stuff.”

“Yeah,” Stinson said. “Worth following up on. Well, gotta run. I’ve got about twelve minutes to write before deadline. See ya later.”

Stevie looked at his watch. It was almost midnight. He had more than twelve minutes, but he needed to get going too.

He ran into Arnold leaving the clubhouse. “How’d you do with Nieves before the scuffle?” Arnold asked.

“Pretty good. I’d like to talk to him again without being interrupted.”

Arnold laughed. “Good luck with that,” he said. “Come on, we need to get moving.”

Stevie followed him to the elevator, wondering about Nieves’s final comment: “Joy doesn’t seem to be his thing.” The Norbert Doyle he’d had breakfast with had certainly seemed cheerful to him-except when the subject of his wife’s death came up. But there was the whole Susan Carol-David secret, whatever that was. There was a story here, Stevie knew that for sure. Unfortunately, he had no idea what the story was.