Absent-minded on a summer afternoon, you could walk right by it without knowing. You might not have noticed the Fenway nun, black and in black habit, waiting with her radio till the game ends, when she'll get to her feet with the donation basket already full of quarters to make it look good. And you could miss the Fenway paraphernalia vendors--booths on a city street in Kenmore Square are nothing special. going left from Brookline Ave. to Lansdowne, you wouldn't know that the huge wall on your right, grimy the color of the warehouse and shop buildings across from it, was the backside of a baseball field. That a few thick feet away is another world, a green, swimming tank--the brilliant electric force-field of a few million peoples' dreams. It would only be Fenway Park, alive and in a pennant race.

"Ye olde lyric courtyard," as sportswriter Peter Gammons calls it, is the most beautiful patch of baseball turf in America. Small, old, eccentric, and a deep shade of natural green, it has escaped--with a few other holdouts like Chicago's Wrigley Field--the lunar module theory of the modern stadium: the physical analog to the wide franchises and slick operations of the new corporate baseball. This is a neighborhood park--no gargantuan concrete egg laid in the center of a vast parkingscape, slabs for seats, plastic astrograss, and conveniently adjacent to the suburban expressway. No, Fenway is rickety and ripe with a sad history--a lot of Red Sox clubs winning hearts and losing still; heros now dead or in the insurance business. Fenway is outmoded and wonderful, decaying like baseball itself is decaying: slowly shedding off its crowds, its glamour, and its primacy in American life.

But that is another story. Here and now, the Red Sox are in first place, four and a hall games ahead of the Yanks. The season is half over, and a bleachers cost a buck and a half. The subway costs a quarter, and Kansas City's in town the end of this week. Last season the Sox were soaring like this, and the Maine lobstermen who listen to the radio on their boats thought that that summer might be different. El Tiante was brilliant on the mound--the team was seven games in front on August 23. The nosedive came--a total collapse, and the fishermen cussed them as hopeless idiots (they'd always known it) and netted all those frustrations, just to haul them back into the sea of their passion for the 1975 season, when most is forgotten and the boys are a bunch of heros again. That Freddy Lynn, by god, he's a natural--haven't seen a swing like that since Ted Williams...and Pudge Fisk is back and better than ever. The passion is for a pennant and in Fenway a lot of Boston gets together and tries to find something in their city they don't have to hate each other about. This energy focused on 27 men, technically: technically because some of these "men" would be seniors here had they gone to Harvard (and only a sparse handful finished college), technically because only about 15 of the 27 of them matter. To get a feeling for them, and for the team in general, you have to take them one by one.

Carl Yastrzemski: Any roster must begin with Yaz, for while his statistical contribution to the team is often negligible, his symbolic value is impossible to assess--he is the real prism of the Red Sox, the central figure in almost every way. To understand Yaz is to understand the intricate relationship between the Sox and their fans and the Sox and themselves. It's all love and hate. When Yaz steps up to the dugout side of the plate and kicks at the dirt like a racehorse, as he has for fifteen years, his third spot in the line-up is like a stall with his prize of a name on it. The fans boo, or some of them do, always. They find an excuse, and they never fail to because he expresses all the disappointments of Boston fans for a decade. They are high expectations, derived in part from the yearly and wildly optimistic hopes of any dichard fan, but also because Yaz symbolizes the moment in history that fuels these expectations. That was 1967 the Impossible Dream pennant, when Yaz hit ...326, with 44 home runs, 121 RBIs, when he seemed to hit the game-winner or catch the game-saver every day. He won the Triple Crown, and was voted the Most Valuable Player in the American League. As Yaz became a near-god in Boston, his name took on an institutional quality. There was Yaz Bread, Yaz Ford, and the Yaz Song:

On Beacon Hill he gives them quite a thrill

In Southie too there's nothing Yaz can't do

In the North End they call Carl Friend

And they hope that the season will never end.

That year Yastrzemski also became the highest paid player in baseball. Catfish Hunter could claim that honor now, but Yaz's salary certainly hasn't shrunk, and since 1967 the money, the batting order, the hype, his longevity as the Sox's oldest veteran, the team leadership he has always displayed (sometimes challenged by the younger players on a club that has had its share of dissension), and the memories--these combine to put an incredible amount of pressure on him, the man who replaced Ted Williams. And since '67 he has flirted with the hopes of the people dangerously: when he fails to come through, the fans reserve their most exquisite fury. When he doesn't hustle to first they razz him. When he applies his talent for appallingly stupid base-running ran all-star from the neck down. white Sox manager Eddie Stanky once said) or fields half-heatedly at first base, his new stable in the field (left field, his time-honored turf in the past, is traversed by friskeir souls now) the hoots and curses come showering down. But the fickle fans relish in extremity: when Yaz plays well, they love him as no else. And this season Yaz is playing well, very well. Perhaps this is because for once his revered position on the team is under attack from a new upstart and young favorite. Yaz might not be quite ready for a successor. But then nobody was quite ready for Freddy Lynn.

Fred Lynn captures peoples' imagination in a way that makes history before it happens. Lynn, a rookie centerfielder fresh up from a quick but unbrilliant career with Pawtucket, is having a sensational, sensational year. He is leading the league in RBIs and leading the majors in run production--RBIs plus runs, minus the homers, which are duplicates. He is fourth in homers and number two in batting average, behind Rod Carew--which is like running second to Hermes. He handles centerfield like a fish in water and he runs the bases like a pro. In late June he knocked in ten runs in one outing against Detroit, and made headlines on every sports page in the country. Earlier in the year he had hit successfully in 20 straight games until he blew it on national TV--these are the kind of things that win All-Star berths in the national balloting. Despite ardent attempts by Boston fans to stuff ballots. Lynn lost out to the likes of Bonds. Rudi ad Reggie Jackson. Still he will play tonight in Milwaukee, chosen by manager as an early substitute. All-Star or no, he's Rookie of the Year baring a major nervous breakdown, and Most Valuable Player is not out of the question, either.

But his greatest achievement is in the minds of these treacherous, demanding, hopelessly in love Red Sox fans, for he has awakened in them the purest essence of their love for Boston and baseball, he has transported them back to a Land of Oz. And as usual, this nirvana is an anachronistic place. Bars rustle wwth talk of Freddy Lynn--who is he like. Ted Williams or Joe DiMaggio? The comparison is borne of the old debate between those two heros, in the Golden Age of modern Boston baseball, when the Yankees were regarded with about as much affection as the National Socialist Party in Germany a few years before. Lynn might have been compared to Willie Mays the same early promise, the same fielding position--but comparisons like this seldom cross racial lines and the Williams DiMaggio axis conjures up memories of great days for the Red Sox and great days for baseball, both of which people are afraid to admit may be waning. And Lynn himself, and all-American nothing-too-flashy, cocky but thrilled-to-be here folks golden boy for so the press likes to portray), does little to deter these flights of fancy. Hell, he's an old-fashioned talent, graceful as a gazelle, and when he swings the bat your heart leaps out of your chest. Thank God he's white.

This leads us to a sobering subject of some controversy in baseball circles, particularly this year in this city racism. No one's going to argue that Puerto Rican pitcher Diego Segan is getting a raw deal in favor of white players, but some observers do feel that Jim Rice, say, the team's other rookie whose performance is only a shade less amazing that Lynn's might not be getting the recognition he deserves. Do the Boston Red Sox have a systematic policy of racism. It's fruitless to argue specifies did black so and so get traded for white so and so--but in a general sense the Red Sox record in race relations is somewhat less honorable than that of the NAACP. Boston was the last franchise in the major leagues to sign a black player--passing up Jackie Robinson and Willie Mays to do so. When they finally did take one on, it was a woefully inadequate infielder named Pumpsie Green, who quickly became a laughingstock. Since then, no black players have made history with the team. Those who promised to-Reggie Smith. George Scott. Tommy Harper--were traded, the first two of whom went instantly red-hot on their new teams. Now Boston has a whiter team than almost any club, as the American League as a whole is whiter than the National.

But still, there are probably more blacks on the field (or in the dugout, anyway) at a given time than are in the stands. Black attendance at Boston sports events has been especially sparse, lately, but the fact is that in baseball there are just fewer black players all over. Athletes trying to make it in sports usually have ten varsity letters and several options as they finish high school, and blacks--for whom the stakes are higher--are increasingly rejecting the baseball route. For one, baseball players don't tend to get scholarships to college; and when the game is so desperate the arduous season and low prestige of baseball makes it less attractive. Many say that the Sox have a more or less deliberate anti-black policy anyways: they point to plantation-owning owner Tom Yawkey, "Massa Tom," who is a very old and wildly wealthy man ("management and control of mines, mineral interests, timber lands, lumber and paper mills...") who doesn't hesitate to spend his riches in pursuit of a pennant. He seldom gets this pennant, and some claim that a decidedly loaded sense of priorities contributes to this poor record. The front office that negotiates the agreements that have junked so many black players is lily-white, or course, but this situation is not uncommon in American sport. Whatever degree of truth in the racism theory. Boston has had more than its share of embarrassing trades, not only in exchanging gold for manure but in the parting shots--Reggie Smith called Boston "racist," as Bill Russell of the Celtics had before him--levelled by some departing victims. Some, on the other hand, say that Reggie Smith was a troublemaker anyway, and we are lucky to be rid of him.

At any rate, Jim Rice has been the Lou Gehrig of the Red Sox this season, an over-shadowed second fiddle to Lynn's Babe Ruth. Winner of the minor league Triple Crown last year with Pawtucket he was expected to be the real star, and in a Lynnless summer he would have been. As it stands, he's hitting almost ...300, and is third in the league in RBIs. Beginning the season as a designated hitter, he's recently moved to left field and has been fielding well.

This move to left for Rice only makes the incredible depth on the Red Sox outfield more frustrating and impressive Bernie Carbo a strong hitter with erratic tendencies that have led him to kick off seasons brilliantly and sag near the end, has been leading off the order and playing right. Dwight Evans, another young right fielder, has plumped lately, but has an excellent arm and hits well for power when he's on top of things. Center fielder Rick Miller, also a striping, would be a starter on virtually any other club: Yaz is available to play left in a pinch. Depth like this puts splinters in the trousers of young ambitious players and some have mumbled to reporters that they'd just as soon be put out to fairer pastures in another city. And a trade or two, for reasons we shall see, should be high on the agenda. Some say that Juan Beniquez, a left fielder currents injured, would be a good bet to barter. An abominable fielder, he's speedy and a solid punch bitter who engineers enough singles to put him at a steady ...300. His Spanish speaking origins drove one local expert to predict that he would in fact be traded, inevitably, for twelve packs of baseball cards and a print of Birth of a Nation

What they should trade one of these out-fielders for is a pitcher--three or four pitchers, for that matter. Boston's league-leading activity should not obscure the fact that its pitching staff ranges from erratic to pathetic: the team tends to win games by scores like 11: 8, 10-9, a match of 7-5 is a veritable duel of greathurlers. An Earned Run Average of 3.50 is unheard of, and the relief pitching is so bad that the bullpen ought to be seized by a people's tribunal and converted into several homes for working-class families. Even the cheerleading Boston press has become exasperated with this bunch: Globe columnist Bob Ryan in a recent evaluation of the team that drew much are from the more reverent fans, wrote that relievers Regger Cleveland and Diego Segin should be placed in a small airplane with Amelia Earhart at the controls, a comment that, for all its validity, led two players to bodily attack Ryan the next time he dared show his face in the locker room. They were fined. Other pitchers include Rogelio Moret, tall, skinny, last and independable; and Rick Wise, a fastball pitcher with a good strikeout record and a heart-breaking no-hitter until two outs in the ninth when big, very big George Scott, the former Red Sox first baseman who was traded despite his great value, stepped up to the plate, leered above his animal-tooth lovebeads and slammed a home run. He loved taking his revenge. The next player proceeded to hit another homer, and a Boston pitcher's bid for immortality dribbled away down the parking lot of Milwaukee's County Stadium. It might be mentioned that the aforementioned Reggie Cleveland, who is a Canadian, is an expect in the spot of curling. This sums it up. Most of the rest of the staff is untried and probably untrue.

Boston's two best pitchers, however, are extremely likeable and colorful guys, and generally fine throwers, Bill Lee, known as the Spaceman, is Boston's only freak. Recently he lost his temper after a bad day and called the Boston fans "racist," proclaiming that the only man in this town with any guts is Judge Garrity. This precipitated much inane commentary from the press on mixing athletics with social criticism, but on the whole the reporters like him because he's a good source: he may be Lost in Space from time to time but he's got more brains and charm than anyone on the Rad Sox. His post-game lectures on the TV news on the subject of the astrological influences on his curve ball that night are particularly edifying. In fact, his curve ball can be quite fine--he's second in the rotation and has one of the best pick-off motions in beautiful. A California, a health food fanatic, he may be seen from the bleachers practicing, yoga in the bullpen on afternoons when the planers are right.

Lala Tiant. In all fairness to Boston's pitching staff. El Tlante, out ace is truly an ace-one of the best pitchers in the game. A few years ago, the Sex picked him upon waivers: Minnesota thought he was over the hill. It was a real aberration for the front office-a smart move, and Tiant has been a steady 20-game winner ever since. Luis has got style. Roger Angell of the New Yorker has called him "the archeologist" (because he picks up the ball and looks are it as if it were a fossil before he lets fly), and an early stage in his complex motion is a rhythmic shaking of the ball, in glove, shoving it down his body in an erotic dance. Tiant's family lives in Cuba, and on a recent visit George McGovern fixed it up with Fidel so that they could come and watch him pitch later in the season.

Carlton Fisk, Boston's star-crossed catcher, is back again-and a great hometown favorite because of his New Hampshire background (sometimes the hometown is no favorite of his-the other day he gave the finger to booing fans, but who can blame him? The press can and did, actually). Fisk was Rookie of the Year in 1972, but a groin injury, a viciously torn cartilage and a broken arm have kept him in the game sporadically until a few weeks ago. Since then he's been terrific, but every time a runner comes hustling home with spikes high you get a lump in your throat-there's something doomed about the guy. Red Sox fans have nightmares about this sort of thing after what happened to Tony Conigliam. But we've wandering.

A few crucial players are left and they will get cheated here as they so often do in most of the coverage. The winner of the Ripped Off-of-the Year award this season is Coell Cooper, who has the terrible misfortune of bring a first baseman. Coop (he needs a nickname badly-partly because he's always coming up to pich, hit in the clutch) has been designated hitter lately, and has done so brilliantly at the plate that they've been playing him more and more. He's leading the team in batting although he has too few at-bats for the league standings.

Rick Burleson, in his second year at shortstop, already is the hub of the infield. A real hustler, and highly underrated. Rooster, as he is called, is in a hitting slump now. Denny Doyle is the new second baseman, and now that he's with a hot team he's exceeded all expectations (which, admittedly, weren't much, but you get cynical about these deals). Doug Griffin, the regular second baseman, gets injured constantly, but is a fine infielder as well. At third base, well, the less said about Rico Petrocelli the better, although some think differently. Everyone has their love-to-hate choice on the Red Sox, I guess. One might mention that he was recently sued by a stewardess for alleged in flight misconduct but was acquitted. Which sounds like a nasty thing to reveal, but again, one begins to love-to-hate.

Bob Heise also plays third and he is number 12. More information about him might be made public sometime in the future but now he is over-shadowed by a star-bright squad. The same goes for backup catcher Tim Blackwell, a fine fielding catcher who is generally considered the worst hitter since George, Chuvalo, perhaps unfairly. Bob Montgomery is another catcher probably soon to say adieu.

You look at this crew one way and they're the Charge of the Light Brigade. They've just won seven straight now, though, and people in Boston are getting hysterical. Dubious, still, perhaps-last year's experience was too depressing. But give it a week or so. There's a run-off with the Yankees coming up, and soon it might be just like the days of sore. And all will be forgiven again