Another great night at Fenway. And to think, it was supposed to be a day game. Yet I'm only as far as Connecticut at 11:30 PM. Will have to take the morning train to the city. Like some kind of...adult.

How often do I find myself sitting in the rain at Fenway? Often. Besides home, work, or school, it's the building I've spent the most time in the rain in. I've heard all the rain songs over the PA time and time again. And I admit: I love "Africa" by Toto. Mainly the chorus. I went a good twenty years without giving a crap about Toto, their To-toian ways, or their hit song. But I guess you could say that one tune grew on me. I mean, it's no "Tarzan Boy," but still. When that dude sings, "gonna take a lot to drag me away from you...", I don't know, he just really lets me know he's not foolin' around.

On the other hand, when he says "I've [something] the rain down (out?) in Africa," it leaves me bewildered. You can't win 'em all, Toto guy.

Oh, so about the game. No-hitter! Ish!

By the time the game started, my girlfriend had left, and I don't blame her. And to be honest, I figured I'd only stay for an inning or so when game time came around, some three and a half hours late due to the weather. As I said, I've got work, four hours from Boston, tomorrow. So I watched Hansack's first inning, and thought, well, I better not leave yet, at least not until he gives up a hit. I was almost rooting for one in the second and third innings. My feet were drenched and my hood isn't the best umbrella. But by the fourth, I was glad I'd stayed, as he really was hurling a no-no. And so after the fifth, I simply rooted for the tarp to come out. Complete game. Win. No hits. A no-hitter, right? Well, when I got to my borrowed car, after sitting through one last rain delay, I found out he didn't get credit for an official no-hitter. Oh well, it still goes into the Jere books as the second time Jere went to a game at Fenway in which A. the Red Sox pitcher threw a complete game and allowed no hits and B. His girlfriend at the time had a ticket but ended up missing the game.

Note: Had the game started again, I would've been in the Kapstein seats. There were that few people left. It was kind of fun. Lots more to come tomorrow with PICTURES. I have a lot of those, and a lot more stories.

Oh, and I finally got to hear Castiglione's year-end speech, where he reads from Giamatti's famous poem. In all my years growing up listening to the So on radio, I was never one to listen to the post-game much, let alone til the very end. But Pat told me a few years ago about this tradition I'd been missing, which Castig borrowed from the late, great, voice of my childhood, Ken Coleman. And, yes, hearing Joe read the poem makes one lose one's composure. i.e. I cried like a baby. I was surprised he didn't follow it up with some sort of positive note, though. It was like, "Here's the damn poem, how true it effin' is, season over, good NIGHT." I also noticed that he adds to what A. Bart said, by saying, "Today, October 1st...," much like in the original, written about one specific season, Giamatti goes on to say, "Today, October 2nd...," and then completes the tale.

Here's the beginning of the piece in question, titled Green Fields of the Mind:

It breaks your heart. It was designed to break your heart. The game begins in the spring, when everything else begins again, and it blossoms in the summer, filling the afternoons and evenings, and then as soon as the chill rains come, it stops and leaves you to face the fall alone. You count on it, rely on it to buffer the passage of time, to keep the memory of sunshine and high skies alive, and then, just when the days are all twilight, when you need it most, it stops.

Leaving the park tonight, led by the light of the Citgo sign, I thought of the entity that is Red Sox baseball, and how it's not about winning or losing. Never was. We've got our own little culture and our special traditions. It's really true about how these things tie the generations together. We make new friends through them, and we find old ones, too. We find things in common with strangers. No matter how often you go to Fenway, it's Thanksgiving dinner every time, with our Sox at the head of the table. Sometimes they keep us up laughing deep into the night. Other times they're asleep after one piece of pie. But it's always a special day. As I thought of this, I realized what the greatest thing about 2004 was. That team winning it all allows me to say this--that it's not about the winning--without having to hear, "that's just something losers say." I was happy to see them win, but I was also happy tonight, giving one last cheer to a group who didn't bring home the trophy.

I love the very end of Giamatti's text, a part far beyond the point where Castiglione stops quoting. On this last minute of the last day of the 2006 baseball season, I will leave you with it:

Of course, there are those who learn after the first few times. They grow out of sports. And there are others who were born with the wisdom to know that nothing lasts. These are the truly tough among us, the ones who can live without illusion. I am not that grown up or up-to-date. I am a simpler creature, tied to more primitive patterns and cycles. I need to think something lasts forever, and it might as well be that state of being that is a game; it might as well be that, in a green field, in the sun.