There is nothing as splendid as being in the ol' ballyard. As soon as I arrive, I am elevated with the spirit of a 10-year-old. I stand in awe at the spectacle. The sight of bright green grass, the smell of roasted legumes, hearing the crowd's anticipation, feeling the crisp autumn air.

I always try to arrive early in order to see these athletic heroes flex their muscle in batting practice. Hoping someday, I'll see the hometown club do it. But in batting practice the color of the stockings doesn't matter. Baseballs fly of wooden runways, soaring over walls looking to escape only to be captured again by an awaiting fan.

The park, perfect with its imperfections. The dimensions of Fenway, vast and crooked. This was my experience Monday, Game 5 of the ALCS.
Little did I know just how spectacular the event would be.

I watched as Curt Schilling made warmup tosses in front of a trainer. In my medical opinion he didn't look strong. When he finished I watched him walk away , flopping his right foot awkwardly forward.

Before the first pitch, Fenway Park was electric, popping. I went to my seat early, anxious, excited. I had a perfect vantage point from straight-away center.

I have been to dozens of games, but the air was different. There was a threat of rain and it was starting to get chilly but I cared not. I was in Fenway witnessing a Red Sox-Yankees game. I am truly fortunate.

It seems like a a lifetime ago now, but Pedro pitched really well. He had tremendous control and velocity. Mike Mussina was equally impressive. The pitching duel proceeded until each had reached 100 or more pitches and the wheels began to fall off.

In the sixth it was time for the bullpen to take over and for eight more innigs they would grind.

I had two baseball caps at the ready. The first was to show my colors. The 1976 model Red Sox cap. I knew it was to be cold and my jackets are all dark colors - blue in fact. I needed something red to show support. Why not?
But in the eighth the Yankees went ahead 4-2. I took off my dusty red cap and replaced it with the "lucky" "Life is good" hat. This is how sick and superstitious I have become. Some people turn their hats inside-out and call them rally caps; I actually have one. My friend looked at me as if I were crazy. Crazy Ed indeed.

Bottom of the eighth, Big Papi, home run. Yankees, 4; Red Sox, 3. Here we go. Millar draws a walk, replaced at first with Dave Roberts. I lived and died with each pitch, hoping beyond hope that maybe Trot Nixon would duplicate last year's ALDS feat. He's up and hits a single towards me. Roberts moves to third and then scores on Varitek's sacrifice fly.
"Hi, my name is Dave Roberts, all I do is score tying runs in ALCS games."
"Nice to meet you. Mr. Roberts."
Wow!

From that point on, we in the stands winced, exalted, grimaced, cheered. We laughed, booed, grunted, sneered. We hugged, high-fived, clapped and chanted. We cast spells, we practiced voodoo and prayed. We even sang.

We also managed. In fact, we thought we did a better job than Terry Francona. We would have bunted here, sacrificed there. We speculated pitching options and put down the steal sign. We had all the answers, much to no avail.

Boston just couldn't catch a break. The Sox were giving the Yankees four outs, while only getting two. It was tough. From where I sat, the strike zone looked small and forever changing. My peers agreed.

"That was a strike?," we asked each other.
"Give me a break, he was safe." "Oh come on, ump, that was a check-swing."

On every close call fans pulled out cellphones asking loved ones if what they were seeing before them was real. Sometimes it was, sometimes it wasn't.

My 35,000 new friends watched Bronson Arroyo retire the side in order in the 10th. What made the feat even more exciting - he faced Jeter, A-Rod and Sheffield.

Top of the 13th. Sheffield reaches first on the passed ball. Matsui then bats into a fielder's choice. Flyball, two outs. Then another passed ball Matsui on second. With first open Franconaa opts to walk Posada intentionally hoping for a play at any base. it would of worked too had it not been for another two-strike passed ball moving the runners to second and third.

I scream to anyone that can hear me, "It can't end like this!"

It didn't. You know the rest. David Ortiz saves the day again driving in the go-ahead run in the bottom of the 14th.

Fenway faithful erupt in a celebration never before seen. Strangers hugging and jumping; cheering for their hero Ortiz. And then more singing. After 5 hours and 49 minutes the game is finally over, but the party in Boston has just begun.

Riot police line Lansdown at least 40 strong. Mounted police patrol the crowd as it spills into the street, full of elation. We are now one unit.

Happy and exausted, I sit in the car not sure if what I witnessed was a dream. It was amusement park of emotions - a rollercoaster ride or better yet a water flume with a magical splash at the end.

My heart races as I make the ride home trying to remember it all, but emotion and adrenaline wash some memories away.

Tuesday's a new day with the same hope. Not sure if I can take much more of this. Today's game promises its own sense of drama when the injured Curt Schilling takes the mound. Both bullpens are running on fumes as am I.

Playoff baseball sure is, err, fun.

Reader comments: Monday's game may have been the best I have ever seen. Have you witnessed one better? Share your thoughts.

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