All week the newspapers had gushed of "the gonfalon" and "a new era" but when one joined the fans moving across the Brookline Avenue bridge to the park it was clear that they at least had not changed. Sausage-necked goons stiff-walked in time to their own larded drummers. Little boys in loose t-shirts whom I remembered as urchins had been transformed into juvenile delinquents by Nancy Sinatra and television commercials. Teenagers whom I remembered as juvenile delinquents had been transformed into flabby facists by the Record American and television commercials. And students from intown colleges, fat thighs wrapped in white levis, yellow shirt-tails dangling, would make good followers for bad leaders. We were a motley crew, hardly fit to pay homage at the temple.

Not that the temple was a monument of stately form. Fenway Park is a misshapen variation on themes in green and grime. It is full of posts and bad seats. The left field wall, built high to convert cheap home runs into cheap doubles, belongs in a pinball game. But, given a choice between the Astrodome and Fenway, one would prefer the latter. On a summer afternoon the park makes delightful patterns of gloomy caverns and sunlit places. It suffers no totalitarian pastel plastic, no carnival scoreboard. It is true to the strange spirit of the city.

Through the Portal

So one surfaced through the portal and realized that Fenway Park was just right for the occasion. The fans were wrapped tightly around the playing field, the left field wall was still inscrutable, and great things could be done here. The park, like the team, was anomalous, small and somewhat fierce.

The teams were taking warmups, and one looked for hints. But one wasn't sure what to make of the Twins. In their road uniforms they seemed grim. Kaat, the starting pitcher, was monolithic, utilitarian and unimaginative. He made only the briefest attempt at a windup as he loosened up. Allison was big and stupid (his stupidity proved crucial), and Killebrew--the Killer--infused his pudginess with evil.

But there was no consistency of image because in and out of the hostile big men cavorted the small Negroes--Versailles, Tovar and Carew--who formed the infield. Throwing balls behind their backs, striking poses for their own amusement, they seemed confident but fragile. Their light-heartedness was an affront to the solemnity of the occasion, and one suspected that the confidence might split under pressure, that the fragility might lead to disaster.

But one liked them, especially Tovar, who scurried about in one place, tagging photographers and newsmen each time he caught a ball. One hoped that the Press would take the hint. Maggots all, they swarmed around our heroes who were innocent and obliging in their little boy knickers and knee sox. We--the public--had created the Press, or perhaps they created us. In any case, they polluted the field with our worst qualities, our inane curiosity and opportunism. They messed about Yastrzemski as if to pull him down. Solid, neatly divided in two equal parts by his black belt, loosening up with grace and some levity, the Great God Yaz seemed impentrable in his excellence. The Press could not touch him.

Santiago was different. He was as fragile as Tovar, but the confidence, if there was any, had been diffused in his skinny frame. One was afraid that he would trip on the pitching rubber, throw his first pitch into the stands, collapse in Puerto Rican tears. And one wanted the Press to leave him alone.

Evil NBC

NBC was lurking in the park, and its character was less complex. NBC was evil. One knew this when one saw a member of their team, insolent in his blue blazer, tanned by the Carribean--or was it Innsbruck--sun, corrupt in his basic indifference to our ragged emotion and hope. He wore a blue plastic badge as a catchet of his sterility. The opportunists from mass media delayed the game so that they could beam coast to coast a clicheridden conversation with the rival managers.

One hated the way Dick Williams, a strange good man, came running to the almighty camera. The interviewer was Sandy Koufax, a patent phony who had sold out for money. Hair slicked down--was it Vitalis or Brylcream--Koufax, also in a blue blazer, underwear by Jantzen, was out of a thousand ads. He slipped a microphone cord around William's neck and made the honest man do tricks for five minutes.

The opportunists were killing us. Just as Williams started back to the dugout, Vice President Humphrey--an ardent Minnesota fan, don't you know--made his carefully timed entrance into front row seats where he stood next to Ted Kennedy. Photographers pushed in close, Hubert worked himself into a frenzy of smiles, and Williams trotted by unnoticed.

In the first inning, fortune threw the home side a slider. The Twins methodically walked and singled for a quick run. Bases were loaded with one out, and one feared for the fragile Santiago. Watching the pitcher carefully, however, one was reassured, not by the pitches he threw--a collection of junk balls without craft--but by his manner.

At the top of his stretch, with his long arms straight up, Santiago's loose wrists would come together in an insolent, triumphant flick of glove and ball. At first, one though it was some kind of supplication. But it was a strong gesture, a determined yet casual Latin signal of defiance. One could imagine Jose saying to himself, as he checked the Twins all around, "I have good stuff. I have real good stuff and I no worry."

Then one had a chance to study the Red Sox, and one liked the prospect. This kid Andrews, Mike Andrews, the second baseman, so young and earnest. Helmet pulled way down. Stance clean and open. Uniform a little bit dirty, even in the first inning. He tried hard. One could have confidence in young Andrews.