As a result, Ted Williams got on first base more than any player in history.

We resumed our seats. My father, I noticed, was literally on the edge of his seat. He lived and breathed Red Sox. He had yet to see them win it all. Could this be his year?

Could his year be my year, too? The year I could finally hold my head up high in my neighborhood? The year of the Nyah-Nyahs, my Nyah-Nyahs, the year I would do to all those insufferable Yankees fans what they had done to me?

Show ‘em, Ted Williams!

He struck out. Or maybe he grounded to short, or popped up to right. I can't remember.

My father told me he could see the great Number Nine, on his way back to the dugout, crying. My father was prone to exaggeration, but his point was clear. Ted Williams wanted this one as bad as anyone in Fenway that day, as bad as he did, as bad as I did.

It wasn't to be.

The Red Sox lost that day. They would finish the season in third place, behind second-place Chicago and the first-place Yankees. The Yankees would go on to beat the Milwaukee Braves in seven games for their eighteenth World Series championship and seventh in ten years. Ted Williams batted .328 that year, and would retire after the 1960 season, hitting a home run in his last career at bat, but never tasting the success of a championship.

One good pitcher was all he needed, all we needed.

Anyone can be a Yankees fan. Try being a Red Sox fan for just one season. Then talk to me.

To be continued ...