In fact, though, the very craziness of that game seemed to kick start the series. The first two games were a lot of things, but they weren't very exciting. Now, however, the Sox and Yanks were well and truly joined. "We expected a battle," said Grady. "Now it's a war." And Roger: "I said it was going to be festive up here, but I didn't expect this festive."

That was a pretty good crack, and even as a Sox fan I appreciated it. All else I was interpreting differently, or so it seemed when I watched ESPN back in Wellesley and read the next day's papers (ours and theirs). The president of the Yanks said such "lawlessness" wouldn't happen in New York. Nonsense. In Boston, as developments continued, it seemed the lawlessness — which might even lead to criminal charges when the courts reopened after the Columbus Day holiday — involved those Yankees in the bullpen who left their cleat marks on the back of the groundscrew guy. Sure, the guy was an idiot and shouldn't have cheered the Sox when working the Yanks' pen. But just as sure: that smug Nelson has been an idiot his whole career (from our perspective) and was lying in wait for an opportunity to beat the crap out of someone. My sister, wife and I agreed Pedro should not be throwing at people's heads (see how clear-eyed we can be) but as Mr. Bachman very reasonably said when he picked Jane and I up after the game, "They should have suspended Zimmer for the entire post-season." They should have, no question. Coaches can't be charging star pitchers just because they're angry. And as for what happened to Zim: Apparently the national media had it that a strong young athlete hammerlocked an old man, then threw him to the ground. I think the Boston Globe got it right: Pedro took Zimmer's energy and "tipped" him.

Perspective, perspective, perspective. I started wondering if I could be objective about anything, at least while this now incendiary series was progressing. Then I found, by chance, that I could be. There was an article in the Globe about two guys suspended by WEEI radio — a guy named Dennis and a guy named Callahan — and I asked my sister for some background, since this update article refused to mention the infamous remark that got them punished. Turns out two loutish drive-time guys made a vilely racist remark a while ago, and the radio station tried to overlook it because these guys have a big audience (and also probably because they know vilely racist remarks good down like ale in some parts of Boston). But the furor grew and finally they suspended the two for two weeks each for public patter that was far worse than what might end a career in any other line of work than shock radio.

Gail explained that this guy — Callahan — now wrote for the Herald and moonlighted as the more "conservative" half of the good-old-boys duo on WEEI.

II think he's in our high school hall of fame," I said to Gail. "Wonder what they think of the choice now."

They're probably not bothered by it. This is something Boston does some times that makes it hard to be a fervent a Boston fan as you might want to be. The city has a disturbing underbelly of racism, bigotry, insularity and self-righteousness that does not compare favorably to some other cities' sense of self (am I talking about New York?). Busing brought it out years ago, but didn't end it. Almost every time I go up for a visit, there's something.

We talked this over a bit as we watched the Pats beats the Giants on TV (every time we turned about, it was Boston-v-New York). The rain was coming down, and so we hadn't been able to get the kids into town as we'd hoped. Gail mentioned that they had pulled the Swan Boats from the pond in the Public Gardens because of Hurricane Isabel, and she didn't think they'd been put back in. But we were hoping to take a Duck Boat tour or something. Now, a washout.

And as we know, the game was cancelled, too. I understand the perspective in New York had it that this was a Bosox plot so they could realign their pitching and skip Burkett for now. The way we heard it, the commissioner's office called off the game, just like it called off beer sales in Fenway when things got ugly on the field on Saturday. (Had Zim been drinking?)

The Sunday game was the one I had several seats for, and we had all garbed-up and driven into town before the word came that the field was unplayable. Lucille, my sister, my brother-in-law Scott and young Thomas were approaching the ballpark even as the fans started coming toward us, bearing the news: "Game's called." Thomas is Scott's nephew, an 11-year-old shortstop and a dyed-in-the-wool Nomar fan from Ohio. When he heard there might be a chance, he turned to his mom, Barbara, and she said okay. So on Friday Barbara, Thomas and Thomas's sister Taylor had piled into the car and began the 12-hour pilgrimage from Toledo. They were staying in one bedroom at Gail's house, my clan was in another. This is what the post-season does to people; these are the kinds of situations the post-season creates.

We wandered Yawkey Way, trying to get something out of this woebegone evening. We approached a gate and told the young woman that Thomas had come all the way from Toledo, and might he just go in and see the famous field. Finally the answer was yes, and Thomas met the Green Monster.

Outside, afterwards, we watched a few players depart: Walker's cute little daughter waving from the window of his SUV, Damon smiling as he drove off in his pickup (Damon now hugely popular not only for bouncing back from his concussion, but for bouncing back with a hot bat, to boot). Then we went home, and Thomas approached his mother a second time. "Okay, sure," said Barbara. "We'll stay another day.

"He's a good student," she explained.

I drove my family back to Westchester County on Columbus Day Monday, the beautiful fall foliage of Massachusetts and then Connecticut a balm after the recent frenzy, then bombed back to Boston along on the Delta Shuttle. Thomas, meantime, spent the day chillin'; he goofed around with Gail's kids, moistened and microwaved and shaped his brand new Bosox cap, got his game face on. Then, finally, to the Fens, where he was transported by the 3-2 nailbiter that turned Wakefield into a Beantown legend, and reinforced the opinion that Mussina is a hardluck loser (New York perspective) and/or soft (says me).

That's the only thing I'm convinced of as we wait for Derek to put the Sox ahead 3-2 this afternoon, before heading back once more to New York: I'm convinced I have no idea what's going on here. Just now on the phone my friend and colleague Bob, a Yankees fan, said, "Hey, how's America's Team?" He was being sarcastic, though I didn't get it. He explained that the whole country now hates the Red Sox. Is that so? Or is that his perspective? Beats me. If it is so, how extraordinarily bad have we been to have accomplished this miracle, to have turned the general populace into fans of the thoroughly detestable Yankees (owned by George Steinbrenner, let's remember).

Well, if it's so, then so be it. It's us against the world now, and if it goes seven, then our headhunter takes the hill in Yankee Stadium on Thursday night, and we stand behind him. This thing is no longer pretty and it may get uglier, but it promises to be thrilling from here on in — no matter your perspective.

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