Tom Ehrich Is a writer and computer consultant, managing large-scale database implementations. Our tickets, purchased via the Red Sox's Web site, put us behind a column in the dreaded Section 2, a distant corner beyond the right fielder's acre, from which the only balls that I see clearly are home runs springing off the Detroit Tigers' bats, plus one spectacular catch by a Red Sox outfielder who heretofore seemed unengaged. In other words, beware the Internet. But baseball at Fenway isn't entirely about baseball. The Red Sox are notorious for dashing hopes.
Rallies fall just short of success.
Players manage to save their best play for a day when you yourself aren't present. Runners are shipwrecked on bases and, to judge by the small zeal displayed in their base-running, never did expect to be rescued. Thus it has always been at Fenway, where the storied contests of yore tend to be near-misses. Fenway is a place for musing about life. I watch a mother take off her sweatshirt and place it over her son, on whom 50-degree chill is taking its toll.