Eliot's first Red Sox game

It was the Red Sox and the first-place Orioles. It was game three of the series. The Red Sox had dropped the first two games. The table was set; Tim Wakefield on the mound.

Gareth stayed up late the night before. He packed fruit snacks, peanuts, crayons, paper, Red Sox jerseys, potato chips, Teddy Grahams, granola bars, and sugarless bubble gum. He wanted to make it special for Eliot. His words: "The first game sets the tone for a life of commitment. We don't want anything to get in the way of his connection with Fenway Park, with the team, and with the city of Boston. He needs nourishment. He'll need a Red Sox cap from an overpriced Yawkey way souvenir shop."

Then the rains came. But we had bought tickets. It took me six hours on the phones and internet to get these tickets. It took six Holly shifts (since I still don't make any money writing stories or reading books) and ten baby deliveries (three boys, seven girls). They might play. And we would be there.

We took the pike, paid the tolls, listened to the Beatles, rode the T, walked with umbrellas out, and paid $13.12 for two happy meals with hamburgers, one Big Mac meal with a Coke, another hamburger, and a chocolate shake. We bought the overpriced Red Sox hat (Red with blue 'B') and put it on Eliot's head. It looked spectacular.

The rains went in and out like the New York Yankee's pitching staff.

We sat in our seats. Look at the picture. It was breathtaking. The white tarp, the new outfield, the Green Monster. On the jumbo-tron we watched them all from Babe Ruth to Ted Williams to Dwight Evans to Carlton Fisk to Roger Clemens to Nomar to Pedro to Curt Schilling.

Then like the Yankee's pitching, the rain stopped. The players came out on the field. They threw baseballs to each other! It was splendid.

The announcement came: The game that should have started at 1:05 will now begin at 2:35.

Eliot was growing restless. His faith was faltering. The players throwing balls to each other helped, but he knew that the rain was like the Yankees pitching staff. He knew what this meant.

He needed to pee. I took him to the restroom. He peed well and washed his hands like a champion. I told him that this was how Red Sox fans peed. I told him how proud of him I was. From the bathroom, we began our walk, hand-in-hand to our seats.

"The rain, Father, is pounding the earth like an overpriced Randy Johnson fastball."

And then the announcement came again: The game that should have started first at 1:05 and then at 2:35 has been postponed."

This is not the lesson I wanted Eliot to learn: that the rain, like the Yankess pitching staff, though it may falter, though it may start and stop, fall hard then soft, always wins. Last year proved this, did it not?

But the rain, what could we do?

So we walked with umbrellas open and took the T to the pike, listened to Neil Diamond, paid the tolls, and drank hot chocolate. At home, we did what any Red Sox fan would do in our situation: we watched the Yankees lose to the Angels: 5-1.