BOSTON – David Ortiz covered the microphone, as if his answer would be our little secret. Only a few weeks ago he had pursed his lips and shielded his ears, a see-no-evil pantomime to Roger Clemens’ tough guy threats. Clemens had vowed to “make some adjustments” the next time they met, which is about all he could say after Ortiz had ripped the heart out of the Yankees’ puffed-up chests.

Ortiz didn’t have much of a reply then, other than to let Clemens know the welcome mat was laid out anytime, anywhere. He again fought to contain his thoughts on Saturday, sort of. Did he like pinch-hitting? Might as well have asked him if he liked brussel sprouts.

“Hell, no,” said Ortiz, loud enough to wake Tom Yawkey’s ghost.

But what’s not to like on an afternoon like this, when Armando Benitez is on the mound and the Red Sox’s luck is due to change? All afternoon the dominoes kept toppling over – Nomar Garciaparra couldn’t get a bunt down, the bullpen caused pileups on the Mass Pike – but then, as quick as you can yell “slide Jeremy slide!” the Red Sox found themselves on the giddy end of another heart-stopper against the Yankees.

So, yes, Ortiz could learn to live with this pinch-hitting gig, if this is how it shakes down: with a 1-2 pitch banging off the Monster in center field and Jeremy Giambi scoring the winning run and a mosh pit at first base and Red Sox Nation collapsing in collective glee.

“I had a good feeling after he hit it,” deadpanned Grady Little.

If he didn’t wear a baseball uniform to work every day, Grady could easily be mistaken for Forest Gump’s clone. It’s the way he talks, and sometimes the way he manages. Things happen to the guy – good and bad things, which makes him perfect for these star-crossed Sox – and if it weren’t for Ortiz’s single that triggered the 5-4 Boston win, Little might soon be asked by restless New Englanders to prove he’s not a witch.

In the bottom of the eighth, with the score tied and a runner on second, Little didn’t know Garciaparra was trying to lay down a bunt until the ball plopped into Mike Mussina’s glove.

“The first thing I did was look up and see if a full moon was out yet,” said Little. Oh yep, he’d rather his No. 3 hitter swing away, oh yep, and that’s all he’s got to say about that.

Little had little control over his bullpen, outside of padlocking the door. Alan Embree, Todd Jones and Scott Sauerbeck allowed all four runs across the seventh and eighth innings, but it is Byung-Hyun Kim who holds a special place in cold Yankee hearts.

If it weren’t for Benitez, that other lovable reliever, luck never would have have been so kind to Kim. That’s fact and fate, forevermore.

“We were able to hold them off there when it looked like they were going to break our hearts again,” said John Burkett.

He has not won in 11 starts against the Yankees, an ignominious 0-6 mark that might as well go back to 1918. Every time Burkett takes the mound he gets booed, the same way Jeremy Giambi is booed whenever he leans over the plate. Such are the charms of playing in the onerous little bandbox called Fenway.

“People here think Pedro’s going to pitch every day,” said Burkett. He couldn’t match Pedro Martinez’s act, but Burkett did shut down the Yankees over 52/3 innings, his pitches sinking like weights, and deserved better than a sweaty hug from Ortiz at the end.

Burkett was in the clubhouse for that ninth, wondering about the vagaries of luck and fate, when a hunch pulled him back into the dugout. Giambi was on second after smashing a Benitez slider, then stealing a base, an act nearly as improbable as a spaceship landing in the bandbox.

Johnny Damon, knees still bruised from the fabulous diving catch he had made to end the top of the ninth, was intentionally walked, and now Ortiz, pinch-hitting for Damian Jackson, was at the plate, trying to recall what he knew about Benitez from their two other meetings across the years.

“All I know is that he was a closer for the Mets,” said Ortiz. “I know he throws cheese.”

Benitez’s saga is longer than the entire works of Henry David Thoreau, but why cloud the mind when simplicity works just fine? Little’s final move was daggone perfect.

“When I was walking out of the dugout Grady told me, “Go and get the Green Monster,’ Ortiz said. “I was like, all right.”

If it were always that smooth, if reluctant pinch-hitters always pulled through, the Red Sox could not claim “tragic” as their middle name.

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(c) 2003, New York Daily News.

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AP-NY-07-26-03 2155EDT