A sharp wind scatters the paper along Landsdowne Street behind Fenway Park. Once the street was a sea of fans, breaking against the left field wall, impatient to pour in and sweep the Sox to World Series victory. Now the Series is over, the waves subsided, the street dark and deserted.

In the gutters, the sea has left its residue-dirty napkins, newspapers, cigarette wrappers, paper cups. "Boston Red Sox, World Series Champs," proclaimed a battered sign in red crayon, before someone crossed out "Champs" and wrote in "Chumps" in blue ball-point, "Win or Lose, the '67 Sox Will Never Be Forgotten," headlines a trampled newspaper.

What's this? The towering Fenway arc-lights burn brightly. Can there be more to come? Of course, that's it--it's all a mistake. Yaz is in there taking post-game batting practice. He'll nap before tomorrow's game, belt a couple of homers, and the Sox will be champions of the world.

Around the corner on Van Ness Street, several hundred fans shiver in the shadows of right field. Are they waiting for tickets to tomorrow's game? Yes, yes, there's been a mistake. Tomorrow Lonborg will pull it out and we'll win it all.

No, it's all over.

As if to emphasize that truth, Carl Yastrzemski suddenly steps out into the players' parking lot dressed in jacket and tie. As the crowd roars, he shakes hands with Cardinal star Lou Brock, manages a weak smile, then climbs into his car. The huge screened gates swing into the crowd and Yaz slips off into the darkness. The lights above go out again.

Still it's hard to believe that it's really over. From the season opener last April on, the Sox were always down but never out. Hadn't we named them the "Cinderella Kids?" Week after week someone always came along to save them-Elston Howard from the Yankees, Ken Harrelson from the A's, Yaz with a homer, Jerry Adair with a clutch hit. Why should we have expected it to be any different today?

Howard steps out into the parking lot now, waves to the cheering crowd, walks to the screen to sign autographs. "Thanks for a pennant, Ellie," a girl shouts. A drunk asks, "We'll do it next year, won't we, Ellie?"

"I might not be back next year," Howard says, and turns for his car. The girl starts crying, and for a moment there is no other sound.

Hadn't they finished last season half a game out of the cellar? Hadn't the bookies pegged them as hundred to-one shots to take it this year? Hadn't the sportswriters counted them out as too young, too inexperienced, too bad, again and again? Remember the final four-game home stand, when we dropped two straight games to the seventh-place Indians? We fell to third then, with only two games left, and Series tickets sold in Chicago.

Crew-cutted manager Dick Williams comes out now, signing scores of autographs but unable to smile. "We'll do it next year, won't we, Dick?" the drunk repeats. "I hope we'll be stronger next year," Williams says quietly. " I hope so, I hope so."

"Thanks, Dick, thank you for a wonderful year," the girl shouts, beaming again. "It's late." Williams says, "we've got to be going." The crowd sends him off with. "We love you, we love you, we love you."

Remember the last game, against Minnesola-the whole permant race down to a single game. Remember Lonborg mowing down those Twins sluggers for his 22nd win? Remember huddling around transistors tuned to Detroit and rooting for an Angel victory? Remember Kenmore Square after the pennant was finally ours?

"It's Lonborg," a shout goes up, and the handful of fans still left race to the far end of the parking lot screaming, "Jimmy, Jimmy, he's in his car already."

Lonborg sits in the front seat, not looking, not speaking--the fallen hero still stunned. "You're great, Lonborg," the drunk screams, and the crowd presses forward for a glimpse of the familiar unshaven face. The gates open once again, and the gold Cadillac convertible squeals away into the night.