Wakefield walked the first two he faced in the seventh, and was pulled by Grady. Now I was angry: I was certain the Yankees had staged that noisome between-innings garbage to rattle our pitcher. I was seeing plots and designs everywhere.

But tonight it didn't matter. The bullpen allowed only the two walkers to score, and the final was 5-2 our side, a dramatic if not exactly thrilling statement that changed the way people were looking at the series. Jane and I savored the moment, and made our way slowly down the bleachers. We looked at the very nice monuments park—Ruth, Gehrig and company—they have in deep center, then we each made a collection of Yankee souvenir cups that had been discarded by the despondent fans. "What are we ever going to do with these?" I asked.

"Give 'em away."

Since I had four for Game Two I turned it into a college reunion by inviting Artie, Dave (Swoop), and Mike—Mike, who would finally get a game since I could now sit alongside a traitor because, well, the good guys were winning. We four are guys who know how to insinuate ourselves into the most crowded of saloons, and this we did at Stan's, the hallowed hall-cum-dump across the street from the bleachers entrance. I had forewarned the guys that we would be spending the game in a beer-free biosphere, and so we forsook the player intros in favor of six-bucks-a-pop brewskies and a bit of wives-and-kids talk.

Once back in good old Section 57, and having high-fived my bro in the row in front, who tonight was wearing a Harley T-shirt, I noticed that there were a lot of those caps they had been selling at Stan's on the heads of the pretty young girls here in the bleachers. They were nice blue ball caps with 1918 embroidered stylishly on the back, small, in Red Sox red with the white piping. A good dig, I thought. This 1918 and Curse of the Bambino business was absolutely coming to define this rivalry for many people.

"Haven't been to this park for years," said my friend Artie, who is a big sports fan.

I knew Artie's team is the Mets, but still I said, "Really?"

"My kids have never seen Yankee Stadium," he said. The reason is philosophical, it turns out. Artie will not put a dime into a baseball ticket if part of that dime might end up in George Steinbrenner's pocket. I've always considered Artie a man of sound moral bearing, and my opinion of him only increased last night.

Swoop is Canadian, and would just as soon have watched hockey on one of the many TVs at Stan's, but seemed to be enjoying the game in the way of a man who is devoid of bias and malice. This was interesting: someone appreciating a Yanks-Sox game on an aesthetic level. I wanted to get inside his head. I wanted to experience what it was like, when the Sox left all sorts of runners aboard in the first and second, to view the action as, oh, ah, a pitcher displaying guile as he emerged from a mess of his own making, rather than as an unforgivable squander. I wanted to be able to stand stock still, as Swoop did placidly as he gazed through his binoculars, rather than constantly rock back and forth, sway side to side as I had been doing for two nights now. I wanted to be Swoop, as the Sox fell further behind.

Mike and I sat side by side.

"The baby's good?"

"Fine. Jan's kinda tired, but everything's great."

"Good."

"Yeah."

"And Tommy?"

"He's fine. Luci? The kids?"

"Fine. Hey, what's with your Giambi. He's kinda a big hunk of nothing."

"Oh, they love him—they love big bangers. Nice walk by Manny on the A's homer."

"Hey, least we admit he's a jerk. Right now, he's our jerk. How's your mom?"

"Good. Getting older, but good. They're coming down from Manchester next week to see the grandkids."

"Great. Hey, they still Sox fans?'

"Oh yeah."

I paused here, hoping he got my point.

The battles went on between Sox and Yanks fans in the bleachers again; no fisticuffs, but some pretty earnest discord. There were a few particularly loutish Boston supporters on Thursday, a couple of whom were removed. Most of them looked like either Matt Damon or Dennis Leary. They reminded me why I like this current Boston club. I know all about the Cowboy Up! rally cry the Texans—Millar, Nixon and the rest—have brought to the team, but, frankly, I was more taken by Grady comments the other day when he talked about his team of "renegades" who care less about Babe Ruth and more about making sure their Harleys are working good enough to get across the Tobin Bridge on their way to Fenway. Cool, I thought. We were famously country clubbers, and 25 cabs for 25 players. Now we're bikers. And it was also cool that Grady called it the Tobin instead of the Mystic River Bridge. He sounded, even with that accent, like a local guy, and he didn't pander to the hit movie. If you don't know the Tobin, you can look it up.

But the renegades didn't do it Thursday night, and frankly I've got some quarrels with Grady over the lineup, not to mention the early-inning running. But, hey, that's baseball. I'll dance with the guy who brung me, and that guy is Grady Little.

Yankee Stadium had worn me out, and I don't think I could've taken a third night in a row there. Too big, too loud, too tense not being able to shout, "Nomaah!!" On the way out of our rows, the Harley-shirted guy and I slapped hands.

"See you game six!" he said, then added with emphasis, " 'less we sweep up there."

"Yeah." We.

I got home at 1 again, but this time didn't go for the SportsCenter repeat. When you're 450 feet away all night, and then, you are giddy with victory, you like to see where the mistake was made on the pitch to Ortiz, and just how far that sucker truly traveled. When you're exhausted by lack of sleep and defeat, you want to go to bed.

And, on the morrow, you want to head north with the family—to the friendly confines, to the Fens.

See you Tuesday, if you're still here.

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