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Most-suffering fan: the owner

Six rows up, the game still matters.

Six rows up, you are safe from the standings and the history and the economics. Six rows up, all that matters is a fan leaning forward and pleading for the moment.

Night after night, the fan fusses and fidgets, loving a team that seems unlovable and looking for hope in a situation that appears hopeless. Game after game, he shares the pain of the Devil Rays.

His name is Vince Naimoli.

Why not sit and spend nine innings with him?

Say what you want about Vince. He can be loose with his temper and tight with his wallet. He has been called thickheaded and thinskinned. As owner of the Rays, he has first claim on any criticism.

But say this for Naimoli. He is here through every game and every grimace. If a bad cook is doomed to taste his own food, then Naimoli has paid dearly.

Is there an owner in pro sports who watches his team play more often?

Is there an owner who watches his team lose more often?

Naimoli estimates, conservatively, he sees 140 or so games a season, not counting spring games or minor leagues. That means Naimoli has seen some 750 games, and given the team's .392 winning percentage, he has watched it lose 459 times.

Why? Why does Naimoli continue to show up and watch?

He grins. Shrugs.

"Because maybe this is the one where you turn it around," he said.

Naimoli sits in the lower club box seats, about 10 rows closer than he usually prefers. His wife, Lenda, sits to his left. Her twin sister, Glenda, sits to her left.

If you want to know the truth, Naimoli prefers to watch baseball from the stands. Yes, he has a skybox. But when he's in the box, Naimoli has to play host too often, and it can get in the way of the game.

In the stands, nervously pulling at a stack of game notes on his lap, Naimoli can be less of a CEO and more of an obsessive fan. Considering the franchise fees, feel free to suggest he overpaid for his seats.

It is Tuesday night and Carlos Reyes is on the mound for the Rays. Reyes is a great comeback story, but his fastball does not exactly have a flame trail to it. Reyes throws his first pitch, and the speed gun says 77 mph.

"Is that his fastball?" I ask.

Never fear. Reyes' second pitch is much, much faster. It registers at 84.

"Adrenaline," Naimoli says, laughing.

Alex Rodriguez, who makes more than the entire Rays team, including those the Rays are paying not to be here, stops the laughter. He launches a long fly, deep toward center.

"It's out of here," Naimoli says.

Then Rocco Baldelli, the brilliant rookie, flashes from nowhere, catching the ball inches from the wall and crashing into it. It is a breathtaking catch, a tear-up-the-contract-and-sign-an-extension catch.

"A scout told me this about Rocco," Naimoli said. " "He's the kind of guy that fans will pay to watch for 10 years.' Well, I hope they start paying soon."

Say this about sitting in the stands. It can be a lonely place.

If something goes wrong in the middle of the Rays-Rangers game, there won't be a lot of witnesses. Fans are scattered loosely around the stands, and the upper deck is, as they say, lightly salted.

To an outsider, it can look like a dying franchise. Not through Vince's eyes, however.

"This team will make it," Naimoli said. "Oh, yeah. Oh, yeah. As this team gets better, there will be more of a crowd. Look at the Bucs' crowds. When they weren't winning, they didn't have great crowds, either."

So how does it get better?

"Look, we don't need to average 25,000 a game or whatever," Naimoli said. "If we can average 15-20,000 a game, we'll be okay. We need to get about 15,000 for a game like this one, and we'll get our 25-30,000 against the Yankees and Red Sox. If we can get our attendance up to a 1.3- or 1.5-(million) a year, it means we can have 26-30 million to work with. With revenue sharing and other sources of income, that means we can have a payroll of $35-40-million and stay within budget. Lou (Piniella) says you can have a heck of a ballclub."

Come on, Vince. Can you really envision playoff games in the Trop?

"Absolutely," Naimoli said. "Absolutely. If I had to put a timetable to it, I'd say about 2005. Lou has said he wants to win 70 this year, 81 next year and make a run in 2005. Looking at the long-range plan, a lot of things are coming together in 2005."

Familiar guy, Vince. He's on a first-name basis with his team.

It is never "Crawford" or "Sandberg" or "Lee." It's "Carl" and "Jared" and "Travis." He talks to them as they bat, his voice never above the level of conversation, the players far out of earshot. He does not heckle. He does not scream.

Oh, he has been known to get loud. He has been known to yell at the ump.

Naimoli still will tell you about the rotten call that Paul Sorrento got in the first season of the Rays, how it really was ball four and the Rays would have tied the Yankees instead of losing in the ninth. He yelled a little. Maybe he slapped the chair in front of him.

Most of the time, however, he simply pleads. He slaps his right hand against his left forearm, gently cheering. And then the ball jumps off the bat, and his head rises and eyes fill with hope. And then he sees it will be caught.

"Aaaaaah, nuts," he says.

So, Vince, you say, ever miss a game because you wanted to take your wife out for a romantic evening?

Lenda leans forward and looks into her husband's face to see what he's going to say. She grins.

"What?" Vince said.

Ever miss a game to watch a sunset? To catch a movie? To take a break?

"No, no, no," Naimoli said. "If I miss a game, there is a purpose. There's an obligation, a duty, to be here. When I'm not able to make it, I miss it."

Not that it seems to be doing Naimoli any good. He admits losing beats him up. He goes home, replays the game, thinks about the calls. Every time the Rays lose, he says, it costs him two or three hours sleep. And some consider him insufferable? Hey, the guy has suffered plenty.

This is the most endearing part of Naimoli, that he does care, that losing does sting. Contrast Naimoli's attendance with that of the Lightning owners, where three men have been to about a dozen games, max. Or with the Bucs owners, who attend games but keep themselves at a distance.

If losing is tough on Naimoli, how does he endure long streaks?

"You can't hurt any worse than losing," he said. "A losing streak isn't any worse than losing one game, because losing one hurts more than anything."

The Rays are struggling at the plate, but they finally mount a bit of offense in the fifth. But with runners on second and third and one out, Julio Lugo strikes out.

"Damn," Naimoli said.

He has had his favorites over the years. Naimoli loved Randy Winn, the outfielder who was traded for Piniella. He liked Bubba Trammell. Esteban Yan, as a closer, drove him crazy. So did Sorrento, who was unable to convert to designated hitter.

Then there are the superstitions. When Mike DiFelice was with the Rays, Naimoli always would venture into the clubhouse and check out the soup. If it was Italian wedding soup, he knew DiFelice was going to hit.

Consider DiFelice's average, not as many Italians are getting married in baseball season as they once did.

Vendors circle. Change jingles. Ah, the sounds of a ballpark.

I am thirsty. I contemplate buying a Diet Coke, maybe some peanuts. But if I do, I am concerned that Naimoli will try to be the good guy and pay, and if he does the month's budget might be shot and the team might have to release a second baseman.

As far as the eternal question of whether Vince is a peanut guy or a Cracker Jack guy, we may never know. He doesn't buy anything throughout the game.

For a brief moment we had the darndest competition ever at the Trop. Vince's blood pressure and Lou's, both rising toward the ceiling.

Rodriguez had hit a long, high, obviously foul fly ball to left. It struck a catwalk. No problem, until the third-base umpire called it a home run.

"Ah, you're crazy," Naimoli yelled. "Crazy."

Piniella charged out of the dugout, his fuse burning. The umpires huddled, reversed themselves. The crowd began to chant: "Lou ... Lou ... Lou."

Naimoli smiled.

"We almost saw an explosion there," Naimoli said.

He meant from Piniella. I think.

So, Vince, you say, are you ever sorry you became involved with baseball?

Naimoli thinks about it for a second. Yes, he says, sometimes he is.

"I gave up so much to do it," he said. "It takes so much time. Usually, when I think like that, it's after we've lost, or after there has been some caustic article that I think is unfair.

"But when we win, there's no feeling quite like it."

Vince called the shot. I was there to witness it.

Aubrey Huff was leading off the bottom of the ninth, and the Rays trailed by three, and still Naimoli was transfixed. A single, a single, a home run and the Rays could win, he said. Simple as that.

Huff walked toward the plate, and Vince changed his mind.

"I think he might hit one out," Naimoli said. "He's about due."

Huff flirted with the rightfield foul pole, then the leftfield foul pole, then sure enough hit one over the right-center wall. It wasn't exactly the Babe in the '32 Series, but you get the idea.

Alas, that was it. Marlon Anderson popped out to end the game.

"Aaaaah, nuts."

Naimoli's chin dipped and his shoulders slumped. A few fans shook his hand, wished him well. Naimoli began to trudge up the steps.

"Tomorrow, Vince," a woman said.

"Yeah, tomorrow," Naimoli said wearily. "We'll get them tomorrow."