In related news, the blackbird was signed to a two-year contract with the Red Sox, where it will serve as a pinch runner ala Dave Roberts

Last night was weird.

It was hot, and those who filed into the ballpark were sweaty, a little ornery and ready for the home team to justify the trip out into the oppressive heat. I suspect that many of the crowd were in our position - having purchased tickets in a frozen January, not knowing that Game Day would be one of Boston's hottest in a looooong time.

Varitek was out, and as of game time, we weren't sure of his situation. Johnson had been called up from Pawtucket because Snyder had to be pulled into Monday night's game; the Sox had hit at least four home runs the night before. The natural inclination was to worry that weak pitching and an exhausted offense suggested a frustrating kind of game.

So our pitching's shaky, the rock behind the plate is missing in action, the bats were tired and no one would actually be psyched to play baseball in this kind of weather.

Awesome.

But I decided to shake off the sense of foreboding and make the best of it. I was in Boston. Yes, it was broiling hot, but I was going to Fenway with friends, there was ice cold beer on tap and I was going to take in my first personal view of the team in a couple of months.

How bad could it be?

As Gordon Edes' Globe story succinctly sums it up today:

Instead of roaring for another walkoff home run by David Ortiz (bloop double and squibber single), the sellout crowd of 36,328 was reduced to directing its ninth-inning encouragement at the bird, which made it back to second and hopped toward third. In the middle of the ninth, the bird occupied center stage, appearing on the video scoreboard, while the PA system played the Beatles' ``Blackbird," at the behest of Dr. Charles Steinberg, the Sox executive vice president of public affairs.

`On a night like this," Steinberg said, ``this is what people go home and talk about. `Hey, were you at the game with the blackbird?'"

A quick sputter of a rally - thanks to Gonzo for making it interesting - but otherwise, the highlight was realizing that we had a lovely breeze blowing on the upper bleachers, while the box seat occupants were probably sweating themselves silly.

Ha. Take that.

It was just very, very strange. At one point early on, the bleachers were flooded with more beach balls than I've ever seen at the park (accompanied, inexplicably, by an inflatable Tootsie Roll?). I think someone on the third base side caught - or almost caught - a foul ball with a cup of beer, judging from the spray visible from our perch. The blackbird situation - which really did get the entire park chanting "Bird! Bird! Bird!" as loudly as if we were at the Garden in the 80s - and the worry over Lowell's foot...the fact that I wasn't yelling or chanting nearly as much as I typically do...

Weird, weird, weird.

The day itself was, well, hot. Damn hot. Insert-"Good Morning Vietnam"-sound-clip-here hot (ten points if you know what I'm talking about). And of course, it was the day that I wound up running all over Boston. Started in Central, stopped in Chinatown, rested in the Common, headed to Newbury and then, oh wait, went to Fenway.

It was a little spastic - by the end, I was busy apologizing to everyone because I was trying to make sure we could all meet up - and I cursed Mother Nature for being the spiteful bitch that she is, but I had fun. The best was probably being called a brat after casually mentioning that I was in town...

Ha. Good times.

But if it's this hot next time I'm in town (next weekend's CP/deSol boat cruise/Guster doubleheader), I'm going to throw down.

Or just beat someone with a water bottle.

Whatever works.

(more photos, as per usual, are up on the flickr)