The two games were, appropriately, as different as night and day.

The first chill October night quickly cooled my enthusiasm, as the Angels mocked the genius and gun of Roger Clemens and all around me people composed articles on the death of a dream.

The next day the sun warmed Fenway, and the Red Sox once again warmed my soul, showing the Angels that wining by seven runs isn't so hard.

But I am no fair-weather fan. Night or day, win or lose, I was thrilled to be there, within the green-walled fairyland of playoffs at Fenway.

I played no significant role in the creating or telling of the story, but I was part of the games, as was every other pennant-fevered fan inside the gates.

Equipped with a new Red Sox sweatshirt and a "press box attendant" pass, I arrived at Gate B both days more than four hours before game time.

Before the game I helped sort and staple press releases for the 504 sportswriters at Fenway--and after the last out, I distributed hundreds of xeroxed boxscores, quotation sheets and statistics to the same reporters, now frantically typing stories for the morning papers.

My payment? The chance to revel in baseball to my heart's content.

My press pass seemed to be a free ticket to all areas of the park--from the bleachers to the batting circle. I watched batting practice from the field, on eye level with a Jim Rice swing that sent the ball into the screen above the Wall.

I knew the second day would go well when I boldly caught Wade Boggs' eye and said, "Hi Wade" as he warmed up, and he returned my smile and my greeting.

Because of my press pass, I came in proximity to such luminaries as Dwight Evans, Roger Angell, Gene Mauch and Jim Palmer. Although it was exciting, seeing them up close somehow made them less awesome and more human. But this, too, seemed to add to the glow of mystery and excitement permeating Fenway Park.

But back to the games. Watching from the press box is a strange experience. There I was, watching my favorite team in the playoffs with 504 people who eat, sleep and write baseball--and, like them, I wasn't allowed to cheer.

The temptation was always there. And I must have looked ridiculous silently jumping up and down as Clemens chalked up a strikeout and Boggs led off the game with a triple. I finally had to go down in the stands for a while to scream off my bottled-up exuberance.

Being among the sportswriters was also an enthralling experience. During the games they were fairly lighthearted, laughing at players' errors and throwing their wide range of opinions back and forth. An atmosphere of calm and lightheartedness pervaded the press box.

After the games they were another race altogether, devouring statistics and quotations as their fingers furiously turned facts and feelings into stories. The press box was a mad house.

I didn't envy them their deadlines, but I envied their involvement and enjoyment of the Game.

I hope to return to the Fenway press box. My grades may suffer and I may go only to see my team choke as they have since 1918. But to be at Fenway from pre-game to game time to lights out, to watch sports writers change from joking critics to intense bearers of good or bad news, to possibly witness the transformation of my favorite team from chokers to world champions is well worth it.