For a second Stevie didn’t even realize what had happened. Then, all at once, he noticed how quiet the ballpark had suddenly become, and he heard Susan Carol’s voice very clearly saying, “A triple play, oh my God, a triple play!”

It was, in fact, the rarest play in baseball-three outs on one play. This one had been amazingly simple because Ortiz had hit the ball so hard. It got to Zimmerman so quickly it was actually an easy around-the-horn play from third to second to first.

Stevie had never seen a triple play in his life. The Nationals high-fived one another as they jogged off the field. Doyle just put his head down and walked off as if it had been routine.

“Unless my memory fails me, that’s the first triple play in the World Series since Bill Wambsganss,” George Solomon said. “Of course, I’m more a football guy than a baseball guy.”

“No, you’ve got it right,” Svrluga said. “It was 1920. Unassisted.”

“Unassisted?” Stevie said. “You mean he got all three outs by himself? How’s that possible?”

“Easy,” Svrluga said. “He was playing second base. Men on first and second, no one out-just like this play. Except he caught a line drive hit right at him. He ran over, touched second base to force out the runner who’d been on second. The runner at first hadn’t realized he’d caught the ball and ran right into his tag. It was almost easy, it happened so fast.”

“How do you know?” asked Maske.

“Saw the replay on SportsCenter,” Svrluga answered with a straight face.

“Pretty good break for your new friend’s dad,” Stevie whispered to Susan Carol while the discussion of Wambsganss and triple plays continued.

“Stop it, Stevie,” she said quietly. “Don’t be a jerk.”

“I’m a jerk?” he said, looking around to make sure no one was paying attention. “I’m not the one who sneaked off today, lied about it, and is now acting as if she’s protecting national security with some big secret.”

“Stop it,” she said. “Stop saying things you’ll be sorry you said later.”

Stevie started to say something else but realized she might be right.

“Fine,” he said. “But it better be damn good, whatever it is.”

“Don’t threaten me, Stevie,” she said. “You’re not my father.”

“I know that,” Stevie said. “I thought I was your boyfriend.”

“You are,” she said. “For now.”

A chill went through Stevie. She wasn’t smiling when she said it. She was staring down at the field, where Adam Dunn was stepping to the plate to lead off the second inning for the Nats.

Stevie was at a loss for a response. She was threatening him now, and-as with everything else-she was very good at it.

Both pitchers settled down after the first inning, and the game became an old-fashioned pitcher’s duel. Matsuzaka was good, allowing only three hits over seven innings. Remarkably, Doyle was better. He walked Jason Bay leading off the second and through seven innings had walked five batters in all, in addition to the hit batsman in the first.

But he hadn’t given up a hit. The Red Sox appeared baffled by his pitches, best described by Svrluga: “Slow, slower, slowest.”

He didn’t throw a fastball that was clocked at more than 82 mph. Every ballpark now had a radar gun behind home plate and a place on the scoreboard that showed the speed of each pitch. Matsuzaka was hitting 95 mph regularly, even occasionally getting to 96. Doyle was usually in the high seventies and low eighties, except when he threw his breaking pitches, which sometimes didn’t even crack 70.

“Reminds me of Tom Glavine and Jamie Moyer,” Maske said at one point, talking about two superb lefthanders known for keeping batters off balance even though they couldn’t throw very hard.

“Except that they’ve won about five hundred fifty-five more games than he has,” Svrluga said.

“When was the last no-hitter in a World Series?” Stevie asked.

For the first time in six innings Susan Carol said something to him. “There’s only been one,” she said. “Don Larsen’s perfect game in 1956.”

Stevie remembered reading about when Larsen had pitched for the Yankees. He hadn’t been a star, but he’d had one great day. Doyle’s story was even more amazing. Not only was he pitching in his first postseason game ever, he had never won a game in the major leagues.

“Here’s the question,” Svrluga said. “The guy has thrown a hundred twelve pitches. Normally, you’d go to the bullpen here.”

“You’d take him out when he’s pitching a no-hitter?” Stevie said, almost gasping at the thought.

“The manager’s job is to win the game,” Svrluga said. “This is the World Series, not some game in mid-July. If it was five-nothing, it might be different, but at one-nothing I think he has to take him out.”

“With a no-hitter?” Stevie repeated, still stunned at the thought that a pitcher who hadn’t given up a hit might come out of a game.

“Yup,” Svrluga said. “With a no-hitter.”

Stevie couldn’t believe it. Hideki Okajima came on in relief of Matsuzaka in the top of the eighth and retired the Nats in order. During the inning Stevie noticed two pitchers warming up in the Washington bullpen. But when the inning was over, Doyle popped out of the dugout and jogged to the mound. The small cadre of Nationals fans cheered when they saw him come back out. Apparently, they felt like Stevie: you don’t pull a pitcher who has a no-hitter going, even if it is the World Series.

The stadium was buzzing with anticipation as Doyle threw his eight warm-up pitches. Under normal circumstances, Stevie and Susan Carol would have been trading comments and questions about what they were about to see. Stevie looked at Susan Carol. She was staring down at her scorecard as if it contained all of life’s secrets.

Pedroia led off in the bottom of the eighth for the Red Sox. He took the first two pitches, one for a ball, the other a strike. “They’re trying to work the count on him,” Susan Carol said to no one and everyone. “They want to tire him out.”

“He’s already tired,” Maske said.

Pedroia didn’t take the next pitch. He hit a fly ball to right-center field, by far the deepest part of the ballpark. Elijah Dukes ranged almost to the warning track to make the catch.

“He hits that anyplace else and it’s out,” Solomon said. “This guy needs to take a knee and run out the clock.”

“That’s the beauty of baseball,” Svrluga said, rolling his eyes at another football reference. “There’s no clock.”

David Ortiz walked to the plate. Stevie now understood why Acta might think about going to the bullpen. He didn’t think Doyle had much chance of getting Ortiz and Bay out one more time.

The Red Sox fans were on their feet as Ortiz stepped in. It was pretty clear they had no interest in seeing a no-hitter. “Don’t fans sometimes get behind a pitcher on the other team going for a no-hitter?” Stevie asked.

“Not in the World Series,” Svrluga said.

Doyle’s first two pitches were nowhere near the plate. He had now thrown 117 pitches. Most starting pitchers came out after about 100 pitches, and the absolute maximum was usually 120. Stevie had checked the Nats’ postseason media guide and found that the most pitches Doyle had thrown in his three starts in September was 87.

On 2-0, Doyle tried to trick Ortiz, who was no doubt expecting a fastball, with a curve. But the pitch never broke down and away, as it should have. Instead it stayed up and went right at Ortiz. At the last second Ortiz realized the breaking pitch had no break, and he tried to duck out of the way. But the ball somehow hit his bat and trickled straight back to the mound. Ortiz was still lying on his back when Doyle picked the ball up and threw it to first.

“Oh my God,” Solomon said. “Talk about a Hail Mary!”

“Talk about dumb luck,” Svrluga said. “That may be it for Doyle.”

Acta was walking to the mound. Even though Doyle had gotten two outs in the inning, it was clear he was exhausted. The breaking ball that didn’t break had to be the last straw.