A new uniform has been added. The blue-suited state police file through the crowd in a long line, creating a momentary wound that heals as quickly as they pass on. The police presence, lessened during the late morning, reappears in force. The Secret Service sets up new barricades, mounted police begin to circle the Common, and the state forces line the sidewalks blue shoulder to blue shoulder in a hopeless effort to keep the paths open.
The Secret Service receives a bomb report, and four agents with a German Shepherd rush to the far corner of the Common in a Harley-Davidson golf cart. The dog decides that the bomb is buried underneath the stop light at the corner of Beacon Street and whines until his masters, relieved at the false alarm, lift him back aboard the cart.
The sound system, miles of wires and precariously perched speakers, gets its first test of the day at noon with recorded choral music. The verdict--great sound quality but a little soft, a defect that has the sound engineers from Donovan and Co. scrambling. They have to do a good job. After all, they took roll after roll of publicity photos Sunday night with their truck in the foreground, the altar behind. "Test 1, 2, 3, Test 1, 2, 3," echoes through the park. And the crowd, satisfied, cheers.
Altar boys find themselves with entirely new responsibilities as the afternoon wears on. The red plush carpet, covered all night with plastic like someone's aunt's living room furniture, is uncovered, and the Hoovers are brought out for a thorough cleaning of the rug His Holiness will tred.
Directly beneath the altar, in the parking garage press room, at least ten people are making use of the hundred-odd typewriters laid out on row after row of tables. The press struggles to cover the event, their efforts hampered because the press area is in the bleachers of the papal ballfield. The radio and TV people fight to get their equipment working; photographers jockey for front-row seats, but with most of the press corps aboard the bus following the papal motorcade, the major topic of conversation among scribes stranded at the Common is why the ladies delegated to serve lunch to the media refuse to open the sandwich line until 3 p.m.
By late afternoon, the boredom of the wait is over and only anticipation remains. The Pope has landed in America and will soon be celebrating Mass.
The crowd surges to the fence surrounding the Common to see John Paul, and they are not disappointed. The two-second flash of his profile, beaming under a wide-brimmed hat as he rolls by at 25 mph, is enough to introduce him to his following. But, minutes later, speaking from behind the altar into the driving rainstorm, his "program of faith" wins his audience forever.
He does it with good humor, laughing at the deluge. He does it with courage, calling on strife-torn Boston to forsake racial violence. He does it with simple humility--"the Pope is your friend," he says to the largest cheers of the day. But most of all he wins Boston Common with his larger-than-Catholic personality. People don't just honor or respect him, they fall in love, in part because that is what he wants.
When the service ends, and the crowd does its best to get home, the Boston Common looks much the same as it had the night be before. But the National Guard is gone, and in its place is something built by the Polish Pope and his rainsoaked Boston followers, made of stronger material than oildrums and polyester.
Crimson editors assisting in the coverage of the Pope's visit include Robert O. Boorstin, Susan K. Brown, Alexandra D. Korry, Oren S. Makov, Amy B. McIntosh, William E. McKibben, and Elizabeth H. Wiltshire.