WALKING THROUGH FENWAY PARK before Game 4 of the American League Championship Series, one got a notion of what life might have been like in the Dark Ages, for the Boston fans in attendance displayed many benighted tendencies. There was, for instance, fanaticism in the air, a desire to see the Red Sox win at all costs. There were tribal passions and tribal hatreds–the hated tribe being the New York Yankees. There were fans that believed in the ghost of Babe Ruth, and fans that feared divine curses. One even saw necromancy, as many looked to heaven for signs that Boston would win. But more than anything else, one saw simple native pride, for Boston fans are as loyal as the dogs called Saint Bernards. I am trying to give a sense of the zealousness of the Boston faithful. Many instances of their zeal occur to me, from the two days I spent in Boston watching Games 3 and 4. While the players were stretching out before Game 4, for instance, a man sitting one row in front of me tapped me on the shoulder.
“Hey,” he said crossly. “My wife told me to take care of you.”
