Bottom line? Baseball’s a wonderful game. There’s no greater thrill than when your team pulls one out. And you can’t get that from a newspaper story. TV’s better, but there’s really nothing on God’s earth like being at the ballpark and getting on your feet in the bottom of the ninth, hot dog still in hand, when the Sox pull one out. If Heaven’s that good, I guess I wanna go.

Born Again in New England.

SO: Was at a game last year against Clemboy and the Yanks where John Williams threw out the first ball (I think he bounced it), and when Clem jogged out to the pen, the PA played Lord Vader’s March—perfect for a guy who started out as a headstrong young Jedi apprentice from a dusty, forlorn planet, then felt betrayed and hurt, grew power-mad and crossed over to the dark side.

May 8th

What’s better than the Sox winning? The Sox winning and the Yanks losing. Last night the Mariners rocked Jon Lieber, so we’re two games up. And we can’t forget the O’s, just a half game behind them. Toronto’s under .500, and Tampa Bay’s already in a death spiral. That’s the kind of year a fan fears—out of the chase by May (like the Pirates, who got one-hit last night). As Sox fans, we need to remember how lucky we are.

And we’re damn lucky today, with front-row seats on the Monster. All along Lansdowne, people stare at the net; Trudy pretends she’s not with me. The guy at the turnstile asks me what I think I’m going to do with it, but just laughs and lets me through. Trudy and the kids can’t believe I’m getting away with this.

The Royals are hitting, clumps of players spread around the outfield. It’s a bright cool day up on the Monster, and the wind’s in our faces, perfect for home runs. We’re in M9, next to the second light standard, but that’s too far toward center. I stake my claim to an empty spot in M5 above the power alley.

I’ve just started to extend the handle when a ball comes right at me. It’s going to be short. I reach out and down. I’d have it if the handle were fully extended.

“Hey, no fair!” Trudy calls from M9. “That’s cheating.”

With the handle fully extended, the net’s about ten feet long, giving me incredible range. It really is unfair.

Mike Sweeney’s taking his cuts. He sends one directly over my head. I raise the net straight up and even jump, but the ball carries over it, banging off the third-row facade and then back past us and down to the field again.