The reaction of the other writers around them was considerably more subdued: they were clearly surprised by the sudden ending but not emotional. Stevie had covered enough sporting events to know that journalists taught themselves to try not to show emotion even if they felt it.

Seeing that she and Stevie were the only ones who appeared excited, Susan Carol calmed down quickly. “That was an amazing game,” she said, as if defending herself.

“Yes, it was,” Stevie said, trying to sound cool and restrained-even though he didn’t feel the least bit cool.

Then they gathered up their notebooks and followed everyone else in the direction of the clubhouses.

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.