The Sox exploded against Ed Whitson in the second, scoring seven times. Many fans were on their third (fourth?) beer run and missed all the fun.

"Jesus Christ," exclaimed one potbellied, beer-carrying man as he came up the stairway, "it's nine to one. I missed seven....ing runs."

A collective laugh went up from the crowd.

When the scoring slowed its frenzied pace, the bleacher creatures took to other devices to stay amused. The section on our left began cheering every time a good looking girl walked by. Somebody yelled "male chauvinists" at them, but they didn't stop.

The fans on the right-field line started yelling things at Dave Winfield, Several times he turned and glared at them, but they only yelled louder.

A group of fans behind the Yankee bullpen tried in vain for five innings to start a wave, but the section to the right refused to cooperate. Finally, one wave managed to ripple over to the center-field camera. The original section went wild.

A Boston policeman walked across in front of us. He was roundly booed. A Fenway guard followed, and was greeted by cheers. It was clear where the sympathy lay.

Spring Chill

As the sun began to sink, it got chilly. We zipped up our winter coats and sat on our hands. Some less-than-die hards, feeling confident with the 11-4 lead, began to leave.

By the final two innings, everyone still huddled in the cold, windswept stands just wanted the game to end. A few people staggered by to get one final beer.

The Yankee fans were much less noticeable than they had been three hours earlier.

The air was filled with optimistic murmurs of "1620" and "They don't need pitching. They'll score at least eight runs every game."

A woman with a Yankee hat stopped in front of us to watch Bob Oreda face the final batter. When the Sox hurler had gotten two strikes on the batter, someone yelled down, "Hey, lady, I have the Yankees and I hate you, too."

Ojeda pitched Strike three Baseball 1985 is here.