Flashes of Panic

Noah had two extra tickets as of Thursday, so I asked my brother and we made plans for this evening. Section two, row fourteen, up under the upper deck in right field. For all that I like the team, I average somewhat less than one game per year at Fenway, and I thought I should take the opportunity.

After the third inning, when the Sox scored five, and then when Ellsbury stole second and third before Tek drove him home (“I just hit a triple!” said Noah. “But they walked him,” I observed,) Ben said something like, “You know, Lester has a no-hitter going.”

We went for warm beverages at the top of the seventh. The line at the Dunkie’s was absurd. The vendors with hot chocolate were getting ambushed before they could reach the stairs and selling out before they made it up to the seats. When we came back out the game was still on.

When we got off the orange line at Wellington, even after I dropped off Noah and Rachel in Medford and started the drive back, my ears were still ringing with the noise of the place. Actually, now, in a dark house in Amherst, they still are.

I stopped in Gardiner at midnight for something to drink, and when I came out of the convenience store, there was a guy telling the woman filling her car at the pump, “Jon Lester threw a no-hitter tonight.” I fingered the ticket stub in my pocket and thought, tell me about it.