Returning to the fictional who-dun-it genre, this time with her son Jere, Tirone Smith in Dirty Water (2008) brings us a “Red Sox Mystery.” In the first chapter, a man wearing a press pass and a curiously lumpy backpack enters Gate D at Fenway Park the morning before a day-night doubleheader. He leaves the backpack in the clubhouse. The chapter ends with a transcribed excerpt from a Sox fan’s blog, which is to be a recurring chapter finish throughout the book.
Dirty Water: A Red Sox Mystery
by Mary-Ann Tirone Smith and Jere Paul Smith
Chapter Two
So that’s how it all started, innocently enough, but rife with treachery as the law understands all too well. And it started in the heart of Fenway Park, in the Red Sox clubhouse, on the first series following a long successful road trip.
According to the police interview with Michael Sullivan, one of Cochran’s several clubhouse assistants, known as clubbies, he’d arrived at the park not too long after Cochran. Sullivan was called Sully, just like every other Boston Irishman named Sullivan.
Cochran had called out to Sully from the shower room to expect Coco, Jacoby and DeMarlo early. So before he got the coffee going, Sully took out his cell, and told another clubbie in charge of laundry to hurry up with the practice jerseys because the three guys were expected any minute. He started putting out some fruit and snacks, when in a few short minutes the laundry clubbies came rushing down the corridor with racks of freshly laundered Red Sox practice jerseys and pants, followed minutes later by the early birds who were soon on their way out to left field. Manny preferred to practice in his T-shirts, sleeves ripped off.
Then the uniforms were rolled in, and Cochran helped hang everything in anointed, open, wood lockers lining the walls.
“Nah,” is what Cochran said to the cop, the first of the Boston Police on duty at Fenway to arrive on the scene. “There was nuthin’ unusual. Nuthin’.”
At that hour, the clubhouse having been thoroughly cleaned the night before in preparation for the early game, Cochran had found no necessity to enter Terry Francona’s office just off the locker room, or go into the trainer’s room, or the interview room either.
When the police officer asked Cochran the next question, one he would ask over and over again—”Did you see anything unusual?”—Cochran responded, “Well, not right then.”
The question after that: “Did you hear anything unusual?”
Cochran didn’t answer immediately so Sully chimed in, “Not right then, either.”
The first player to walk into the clubhouse after Manny dashed through, and DeMarlo, Coco and Jacoby got out to the field was Tim Wakefield, scheduled to pitch the day’s first game. He smiled to himself for he’d noted the lack of humidity despite the early-morning heat, and had taken a glance at the flag. It was blowing toward left-center field out over the Green Monster. Just what hitters hope for against any other pitcher. But Wakefield’s knuckleball darted and danced better when a breeze was blowing right in his face. Hitters have enough trouble making contact against it; when they’re swinging for the fences they have even less of a chance. And with low humidity, any ball a batter was able to get up into the jet stream would be a little less likely to reach the Monster Seats. Sometimes the difference between a solid performance and an early shower.
The grateful Wakefield knew that weather was one of so many things he couldn’t control. Tough enough trying to control his infamous knuckleball, something near to impossible.
Before starting his day’s routine with a shower, Wake must let Sully know whether or not he’s decided to go with the red jerseys instead of the usual snow-white home uniforms. The occasional red jersey plan was some front office idea that made no sense to the players and certainly not to the fans. As if they needed yet another over-priced “authentic” jersey. But it was more bucks for the brand. However, bottom line? The decision is left to the pitcher as the game pretty much rests on his frame of mind.
Wake said to Sully, “Stuff the red shirts.”
Soon Sully was aware of more footsteps approaching in the corridor. He would say to the cop, “I knew it was Lowell and Lugo and Cora. Tavarez, catching up, dropping his stuff. Good friends. Always laughin’. Could hear that laughin’ a mile away.”
The rest of the team arrived in staggered groups of two or three, along with their manager who called out a greeting to everyone. Then Francona ducked into his office and closed the door behind him so he could review the trainer’s report from the previous night before filling out the lineup card. His lineup hinged on the health of the players.
Paul Lessard, the trainer, arrived too, with his assistants, and they prepared for an hour of wrapping ankles, checking blisters and bruises, after which he’d consult with Francona one last time.
In the hallway, Kevin Youkilis met up with Dustin Pedroia. The first and second basemen were in competition for the slowest baserunner award. Their joint appearance elicited calls of encouragement for one to beat the other to their lockers.
The final group was led by David Ortrz, known throughout baseball and beyond as Big Papi. He walked with Daisuke Matsuzaka, who he had in a headlock. His other arm was draped around the shoulders of Hideki Okajima. The two new Japanese pitchers also had nicknames: Dice-K, the phonetic pronunciation of his name for the benefit of Americans who needed a clue as to how in God’s name to say, Daisuke. And Oki—a no-brainer choice.
Their translator hung back, still a little afraid of Big Papi’s physical demonstrations of affection. All recollected later to the police officer that it was Doug Mirabelli, Wakefield’s personal knuckleball catcher who’d first said, “What the hell was that?”
Wakefield, at his locker, still damp from the shower, asked him, “What was what?”
His catcher said, “I don’t know. I thought I heard a squeak or something.”
Lugo called out, “Thas’ Cora farting away. I smelling it from here.”
The clubbies laughed but clammed up when Cora told them to shut up: “Cállense, cobrónes.”
All of a sudden, the squeak that Mirabelli had been the only one to hear sounded again. Everyone heard it this time and they stopped what they were doing, posed in the act of either, buttoning or tying, all conversations stopping in midstream.
“Is there a fucking cat in here?” Youkilis was allergic to cats.
The players shushed him, and they listened, cocking their heads, their expressions intent.
“Would somebody turn off the goddamn television?”
Someone did.
But there was nothing.
And then Curt Schilling, father of four, said, “Ya know. . . Don’t think I’m crazy, but it sounded like a baby.”
Good-natured derision ensued—”What the hell time did you get to bed last night, Schill?”—and after another minute, just as the guys went back to their routine and the clubbies had begun bustling again, the squeak sounded one more time, only now it was more of a cry. Once again, the players froze in mid-motion. Then Daisuke made a cradling motion with his arms, and Dustin, who had no children, said, “That was a baby, I swear to God.”
The players were all on their feet, not moving, concentrating, listening. Cochran was at the wall phone, dialing security.
Squeak. . .
Papi shouted, “Tito!”
Sully started banging on the manager’s door, “Tito! Tito!”
Everyone called Terry Francona by his ballplayer father’s nickname, Tito, which Francona loved.
Francona’s door opened just as the players, like statues come to life, moved at the same time. They spread out through the clubhouse, dashed though the shower room and bathrooms, rifled through the lockers, looked in the wastebaskets, under the trainers tables, rummaged through the equipment cases. Tito tried to make sense out of what Cochran was trying to tell him.
It was the Captain, Jason Varitek, who opened the interview room door. The room was brand new, and doubled as a chapel for the many evangelical players who held prayer groups there. They, in fact, referred to the room as the chapel when it was time for a service. It was windowless and pitch dark. Varitek switched on the light, and his gaze fell to the movement at his feet. Instinctively, he went into his catcher’s squat, opened the black backpack lying there, and lifted out a baby.
The infant was wrapped in a piece of dirty rag stained with grease, the kind all these men had stuffed into the wheel wells in the back of their array of vehicles.
Varitek shouted, “Somebody get a towel,” and began to pull open the filthy piece of cloth.
The baby was wearing a yellow onesie with a bunny hand embroidered on the chest. Knitted cotton booties to match.
Lugo yanked off his shirt. “Wrap him in this. Is warm, at leas’.”
Tito broke into the huddle of players around Varitek. He squatted down too, knees cracking. Later, he would say to the police officer, “Someone shouted to turn off the air conditioner. The baby was wet.”
Schilling unsnapped the onesie at the crotch and took off the soaking diaper.
The baby was a boy.
Then he wrapped Lugo’s shirt around him, and Varitek took up the baby again holding him to his chest. He shouted for the trainer, “Where the hell is Paul?”
Paul Lessard was just now dashing out of his office, along with Jonathan Papelbon, wearing nothing but a newly wound elastic bandage hanging from his wrist.
The players proceeded to describe to the officer what the commotion sounded like:
“Man, we were all shouting at once.”
“Yeah, like, Somebody get the doc. But the doc wasn’t there yet. So then somebody else yells, Get the fucking ambulance guys!”
“We couldn’t figure out how the hell to turn off the goddamn air conditioner.”
“Dustin yanked some cord out of the wall and half the fucking lights went out.”
“The air conditioner stayed on.”
“So Cora says, ‘Shouldn’t we give him some milk or something?’ So I says, ‘Shut up, you asshole.”‘
“And Tito kept saying, Jesus Christ, Jesus Christ.”‘
The men told of the trainer staring down at the infant who was quiet, but whose eyes were open, gazing up into the face of Varitek.
“He’s a few weeks old, I think,” was what Varitek whispered to Schilling, the veteran pitcher with the four kids.
And Schilling agreed. “Bout a month.”
The trainer remained speechless.
Varitek said, “He seems weak.”
“Like he’s all cried out.” Schilling’s eyes welled up.
Finally, the trainer came out of his trance. He put the palm of his hand on the baby’s head. “He doesn’t feel hot. But. . . I hate to say it. . . I think he’s drugged.”
Varitek held him closer as the players expressed dismay.
Just then, Amalie Benjamin, wunderkind of the Boston Globe walked in, yawning, there to gather info for her televised, pre-game, clubhouse report. She asked, “What’s the ambulance revving up for?” She hooked her thumb over her shoulder. “Did Lugo pull an ass muscle hustling to get to the doughnuts?”
Tito went right at her, put an arm around her shoulder and pulled her to the door. “We’ve got a situation. You’re out.”
“What situation? Tito, you can’t. . .”
He shoved her out the door and closed it.
The baby, at that moment, let out his pathetic little squeak again. Sully elbowed his way into the scrim of players huddled about him. He held a cup of warm water in his hand. While Varitek continued to cradle the infant, Sully sprinkled a few drops on the little head and said, “I baptize you in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.”
Several players blessed themselves. Dice-K and Oki bowed their heads and closed their eyes.
Big Papi whispered to Kevin Youkilis, “Don’t take it personal. That baby’s Hispanic.”
Youkilis said, “There’s a lot of Jewish Hispanics, Papi.”
Amalie, outside the door and wits collected, got out her cell and pressed 8, which was a direct line to the sports editor to be used only when there was a breaking story. She said to him, “There’s some kind of shit goin’ down here.”
He told her to stay where she was, something she’d certainly planned on doing.
Then the EMTs came flying past Amalie and into the clubhouse. Cochran had told them what to expect and they were prepared.
Upon laying eyes on the baby, one said quietly to the other, “He’s not a newborn.”
“Nope.”
“Put away the suction stuff.” The senior EMT took the baby from Varitek and said to his co-worker, “Something’s wrong with him. He’s too flaccid.”
The trainer gave them his opinion.
They agreed. The baby had likely been drugged.
They went into action, preparing him for his swift journey to Beth Israel Deaconess Medical Center, the nearest hospital to Fenway. The doctor on call at the Deaconess station within the park still hadn’t arrived yet. The players watched, and then Varitek made an announcement which he directed at his manager. “I’m going with him, Tito.”
Later,Tito said to the officer, “I knew I wouldn’t talk him out of it. I didn’t want to talk him out of it, either, tell ya the truth.”
Varitek’s decision was easier to accept since Wakefield was pitching that first game, which meant Mirabelli, trained to handle the knuckleball, would catch. Varitek told Tito not to worry—he’d be back for the second game which wasn’t until eight o’clock. Then he and the EMTs ran out with their little bundle. As it would turn our, Varitek returned to the field in the sixth inning of the first game with news of the baby’s treatment and diagnosis. The news was good—the baby had been transferred to the hospital next door to Deaconess—Boston Children’s—and by the time Varitek left for the park, he was much stronger, really carrying on, crying like a champ.
“The drug was pretty much worn off,” he told the team, who’d mobbed him in the dugout.
THE NUMBER ONE PLACE
Sunday, 12:30 PM
Craziness at Fenway right now. As I type, Jason
Varitek is not in the dugout (he wasn’t gonna catch
the first game anyway with Wake on the mound).
He’s at Deaconess. A baby was found in the Red
Sox clubhouse before the game started, and Tek
went with it in the ambulance.
As you can see if you’re watching on TV right now,
the game’s going on as normal, and NESN hasn’t
mentioned anything. Who knows if they will or if
they’ll wait until after the game. More on this as it
develops.
COMMENTS:
ConnecticutSoxFan said: lf the Yanks were in town,
I’d have said A-Rod planted the baby, only to “rescue”
it later. But the Red Sox found it first, foiling his
attempt to find the spotlight. Man, that guy never
comes through in the clutch. By the way, you ARE
joking about this baby thing, right?
MattySox said: Do you think A-Rod used a Cabbage
Patch Kid, or one of the babies he had with his mistress?
Jay said: Haha. I knew you all would somehow weave
A-Rod’s failures into this story. But no, this is all
true. The baby story is real.
KGNumber5 said: Yeah, this news is up now on the
Joy of Sox blog, quoting AP.
RebGirl said: And now Remy’s mentioning it on the air
Holy shit!
AJM said: Jay, come on, you’re really Curt Schilling,
right? You were right on top of this one.
Jay said: Nah, Curt’s got his own blog….
[END OF SELECTION]