NEW ALBANY — A museum exhibition this summer in London explores the common origins of baseball and cricket, described by an organizer as, “blood brothers, separated at birth but genetically linked.”

Last year in Plymouth, England, my wife and I paused for a leisurely hour watching amateur cricket at lush grounds not far from the wilds of the Dartmoor. Last week, a bit closer to home in America, we twice had the opportunity to witness baseball in an atmospheric setting laden with history.

What better place than New England, original settling ground of the Colonists, to view the American version of the old British game — moreover, in Boston, birthplace of the American Revolution?

And what better venue for being taken out to the ballgame than Fenway Park, home of the Red Sox since William Howard Taft resided in the White House?

Alas, times are not rosy on Yawkey Way, the epicenter of Red Sox Nation. Talk in Boston shifts between the summer's miserable heat and humidity and the team's considerable struggles. Assembled and paid to win, and to win now, the Red Sox have been beset by injuries to many of its best players, and the division lead enjoyed by the hated Yankees may be insurmountable.

Both extreme climactic conditions and unfulfilled sporting expectations came together on Sunday afternoon, July 18, during our second game at Fenway.

Seats were along the first base line, just close enough to the manicured field that a pitiless sun's arc through cloudless blue skies never once took the orb behind the roof. I tried solving the 95 degree heat with a number of liquids derived from malt and hops, and purportedly traceable to one brewing father of our country, but these offered little assistance. At $8.25 per chance, I clung to the hope that they were helping send a concessionaire's son or daughter to college.

The suffering wasn't confined to us. A pervasive, passive torpor seemed to exhaust the thousands in attendance on Maine Day during a win by the Texas Rangers, their third victory during a four-game set. The depleted Red Sox departed afterward for 10 games far away on the West Coast, and appeared weary at the prospect.

Boston currently languishes in third place, and the wild card seems its only hope, albeit increasingly faint. Amid the heat, some locals whisper conspiratorially about NFL training camp and the Patriots, while others look to the Celtics and Bruins for solace.

Fortunately, our first game on Saturday night was as exciting as Sunday's was lethargic, although it took unusual effort to view it.  

Our delightful hosts at the bed and breakfast doubted that we'd be able to get within a half-mile of Fenway at game time on any conveyance save human feet, our belated arrival necessitated by alterations of Delta's flight schedule and an unexpected detour through Memphis.

The connecting flight touched down at 6:30 p.m., and the rush was on. The cabbie was masterful, whisking us through crowded streets in densely populated, multi-ethnic Somerville, past Brazilian restaurants, the Greek friendship society and a thriving Chinese grocery. I schlepped luggage upstairs to the room and exchanged the briefest of pleasantries while grabbing a house key, and we made for Fenway, to be dropped mere yards from the entry gate. I tipped generously.

Strolling through the bowels of an elderly concourse, we emerged to seats on the third base line. It was dusk, with a cool breeze, and the Red Sox were ahead of the Rangers 1 to 0 after an inning and a half. A classic pitching duel unfolded, with newly acquired Texas southpaw Cliff Lee serving a mixed repertoire of strikes as Boston's second-tier subs impatiently flailed. Meanwhile, Red Sox starter John Lackey was overpowering (he threw seven perfect innings in a subsequent start) and held the powerful Rangers lineup in check.    

As zeroes were inserted by hand on the old-fashioned scoreboard at the foot of the infamous Green Monster, I had ample time to study the archaic features of Fenway. It dates to 1912, a shade older than Wrigley Field in Chicago. The cramped, anarchic configuration results from intent, serendipity and the long abandoned urban prerequisite of fitting ballparks into existing city blocks without the corresponding modern requirement of parking acreage surrounding them.  

Even casual baseball observers don't need Ken Burns or George Will to tell them that while the sport's origins are rural and pastoral, its more recent history and evolution have been decidedly urban. Fenway and Wrigley offer testimony to the period before WWII when country game became city sport. In somewhat unalloyed form, they provide a sense of the pre-1970's milieu.

Accordingly, one accepts the bad with the good. Parking is scarce. Obstructed sight lines and small seats can make for cramped quarters. Restrooms are tiny, and lines lengthy. Overall, the claustrophobic need not apply. But the glories of the game can overcome minor inconveniences, as on our Saturday evening at Fenway.

In the bottom of the ninth, with a Boston defeat seemingly assured, Cincinnati native Kevin Youkilis kept the Red Sox alive with an RBI hit to left off Lee, inexplicably still pitching as Texas' ace closer idled in the bullpen. Then in the 11th, the bases loaded with Red Sox runners after a series of sloppy Texas defensive plays, Youkilis lofted a long fly to center, plating the wining run on a sacrifice fly.   

At least on this night, Boston fans went home happy, including two New Albanians ecstatic to take the “T” home.



As yet unable to hit the curve ball, Roger remains a diehard fan of the Oakland Athletics, even if sports only rarely make the pages of the NA Confidential blog: www.cityofnewalbany.blogspot.com