BOSTON--"Safe at home! Safe at home!"

Loud, chaotic, yet inviting, the cheers surround Fenway Park, one of the defining features of this city.

Like a few older stadiums of a dying era, Fenway is deeply woven into the fabric of the community. Just outside of the Back Bay, it provides a glimpse at America's past--and a reminder of a more personal history.

While not every student has participated in high school or Little League baseball, most American students have experienced the familiar ebb and tide of the summer pennant race.

We have been wakened early on a Saturday morning by neighborhood children cheering on their teams in a pick-up game in the cul-de-sac.

We have been captured by stories of Jackie Robinson or Satchel Paige, Fernando Valenzuela or Jim Abbott.

To quote from the quintessential baseball movie "Field of Dreams," baseball has been the one constant through it all.

It links the age of the robber barons to the age of the information technology giants.

Through the years, Americans have always been able to call on baseball--and Bostonians have been able to head to Fenway--for a release.

Last Friday evening at a game against the Tampa Bay Devil Rays, I watched the Red Sox lose 6-2. Between the intermittent rainfall and the less-than-constant Boston offense, the game seemingly offered little to please and even less to remember. But looks were deceptive.

During the seventh inning, before the proverbial stretch, little 6-year-old Mickey came up to me.

He had been seated about ten rows in front of me, but during the top of the seventh Mickey ambled by and looked like he had something to get off of his chest.

"See, I got a real ball," he said triumphantly, proudly displaying his baseball.

"One of the baseball players hit it. I'm going to keep it now," Mickey said.

"Are you going to put it in your bedroom?" I asked.