The city had risen to the occasion. The Knot-Hole Gang clustered about the 200-foot high struts of the Old Grand-Dad billboard that peers down into Fenway Park. On a nearby apartment building five button-down pioneers looked out from the highest outcropping of stone, twenty-three stories above the ground. The Red Sox had inspired Bostonians to assault modern architecture and advertising--which was more than Louise Day Hicks would ever do.

Inside the park Senator Brooke, another pioneer of sorts, was making his way to the seat where Ted Kennedy had sat the day before. Kennedy and Humphrey were gone, and one admired Brooke for eschewing tokenism. Yesterday, like the proverbial black boy who doesn't want to be pushy, he had not even notified the management of his presence. He had sat unnoticed in the recesses in right field with his family. Now it seemed fitting that he should be rewarded for his humility with a front row seat.

California Crocket

The skyline was encouraging. So was Lonborg. Davy Crockett in red, white and blue. The resemblance was to be expected. Lonborg came from California.

The Red Sox fell behind right away. A throwing error by Scott allowed Killebrew to score. That was all right. Scott was a clown. Still, it was Killebrew who scored. That ominous home run yesterday and now this first run. Evil seemed to have found its agent.

In the second inning Yastrzemski muffed a bouncing single. Another run scored. Scott was a clown, but Yastrzemski was everything. By itself the error meant little--only a run. But one had to weigh its physic consequences, its value as a clue thrown out by fortune. Working backwards from the outcome one can always discover the clues. The problem was to work forwards--isolate the clues, determine their value, chart their relationships, and conclude the outcome in advance.

Trust Lonborg

Proof? Obviously the important men here were Lonborg and Yastrzemski. By the third inning Lonborg was behind 2-0, both runs were unearned. He didn't seem to be shaken by the defensive collapse. But one couldn't be sure. Then, at bat against Chance in the bottom of the third, Lonborg poked a one-handed single to center. Lonborg was stronger than Chance, just as Santiago had been stronger than Kaat. One could trust him.

By this reasoning Yastrzemski's first appearance at the plate following his error would be critical. His error had slowed the psychic momentum of Saturday's charge. One felt anything less than a hit would reverse the dizzying hope he had aroused in team and crowd, reverse the superhuman confidence he had in himself. Lonborg could not defeat the Twins without his help. There is no point in needless suspense. In the fourth inning Yasthrzemski sliced a line drive off the left field wall and slid into second, into the very heart of the diamond. The Red Sox were still moving in the force field of fortune and victory which they had entered on Saturday.

Delivery in Bed

And Chance? He would not win this game. In the first place he was a picayune materialist who constantly asked for new balls (One didn't learn until afterwards that Lonborg had penned "$10,000" on the pocket of his glove.) Furthermore Chance, was lazy. He relied on a driving, showboat follow-through to salvage an otherwise lackadasical delivery. While such tricks undoubtedly served him well in bed--one always associates Chance with Dean Martin and Bo Belinsky--they would not suffice against Lonborg's constant, balanced effort.

By the bottom of the sixth the sky had gone gray, as gray as the Twins--but from this sign alone one couldn't tell whose side Nature was on Lonborg was the first batter, and he beat Chance again, this time with a rolling bunt. That was it. One didn't need a psychic model to interpret this key. Fortune was gleefully clubbing us with blatant clues. Adair, Jones and Yastrzemski followed with singles. The score was tied.

Then, just at this hinging point, we--the crowd--responded for the first time in a way that brought us dignity and the right to talk of the Red Sox as "our" team--until our sharp fall from grace after the game. Harrelson was at bat, two men on, no outs. This was the weakest link in the rally, this hapless outfielder from the Kansas City A's who still carried that team's curse of failure. We knew that and took responsibility out of Harrelson's hands.

The chant began, built louder and whirled towards frenzy, leaving the words behind. Just screams, then shrieks. Boundaries dissolved. We were one being pushing the cry of orgasm out from the caverns of the stadium which formed our body. A fearful rage of fulfillment that blasted the selfishness and hate which had made us impotent for so many years.

The sound drove Harrelson's weak bouncer higher and higher until Versalles had no time to make the play. Chance was through, and the moment one saw Worthington, a relief pitcher burdened with a big belly, one was sure of victory. He threw two wild pitches. Another run scored. We leaned against each other, laughing, yelling, clapping strangers on the back and shoulders, Killebrew made an error. The fifth run came home, and we were close to our team, close to each other in this communion service of sen-