On evenings when the Baltimores and Bostons of the American League get together, the bulk of patrons gathered 'round the diamond cheer on the World's Champs. Down south, it's a throng of road-weary pilgrims all in red constituting the noisies. In this fair city, it's the lucky thirty-grand from surrounding neighborhoods that comprise the crowd. Either way, Francona's men feel quite at home when their sights are filled with icterus galbulae.

Those who secured a scannable slab for to-night's tryst were rewarded handsomely. Hispaniola's Colon showed the form that made him the league's top tosser a few years back, as he's been wont to do since donning the red socks. Other clubs were non-believers, but the Boston brass took a high view on Colon, perhaps finding inspiration from the fact that the portly pitcher was born in the town of Altamira. The only O-bird to touch home on Colon's watch was Luke Scott, who propelled himself from batter's box to home plate on a single cut. The rest of the group looked as if their hitting implements had been infected with anthrax.

The pitching was done pressure-free, as the Bostons racked up a fin in the first. Blazing Drew knocked in young Navajo Ellsbury and scored on a feral ball, before the Captain put a charge into one, over the Wall-seats and into the auto-stalls for three points. Lowell did his own dong with the sacks hollow in the sixth to end the Bostons' above-average attack. Six to three in favor of the Fenway-men was the final tally in the run column. Timlin got caught in a mosh in the final frame, and Pedroia failed to check the sphere's forward movement on a dirt-skipper that initially looked like Baltimore's death knell. Papelbon's usage was necessitated, and the last out came rather quick. Cheer upon cheer went up for the victors, who moved two games ahead of the Tampa squad.

The New-York Americans were croaked in Oak-town later in the night, falling an unfortunate seven games behind.