Last night concluded New York’s three-game stint in Boston and even after being lucky enough to attend two of those games, as my mother keeps reminding me, I haven't written a word. The thing about moms is that they don't accept the "I've been busy" line. And in all honesty none of you should let me get away with that either. So here goes.
       
         Tuesday: The flow of an entire city was dictated by baseball. Parking proved impossible. Late [read: not two hours early] arrivals were forced to drive through the throngs on Brookline Ave., who walk with an audacity that claims two lanes of roadway as pedestrian-priority on game days. I recommend this experience for anyone starting a new relationship. If he offers to scour the city for a space and drop her off at the park so she won’t miss the first pitch, then he's a keeper. If she says "no, I'll stay with you," then she's a gem, right? Wrong. She's a winner if there's a beer waiting for him when he reaches their seats. If she splurges on an imported brew then he should be thinking long-term relationship. 
     
       Navigating baseball crowds always requires a delicate balance of finesse and patience, but when the Yankees are visiting it's as if everyone is operating on spring-loaded emotions. Throw an elbow in my back and your Red Sox field hat works as an unspoken apology. Hip check me wearing a New York jersey though, and there's no such thing as an accident.
   
      But some of this was amiss in the series opener. The expected tension from a matchup featuring the two best teams in the American League East was oddly stale. The only palpable disturbance to the night air was a light mist that gently covered the batting helmets and made them glimmer under the stadium lights. Maybe the crowd could feel the quiet confidence emanating from Beckett as he stood stolid on the hill. Maybe they were comforted by Boston’s five-game win streak against New York this season--a string that was not only gracious to home field fans but that also spat on the grass at the new Yankee Stadium twice in May. Or was it Ortiz’s commitment to his mission to swing like a slugger again?
  
       Tuesday's center field smash was certainly a step in the right direction. With every at-bat Papi flirted with Mario Mendoza’s ill-famed line: .197 to .201, then to .200 and back below at .198 again. The two-run shot was his only hit in four plate appearances but the Fenway faithful were roused regardless. Sox fans stood to cheer their diminished DH; clapping, chanting, and whistling their support every time he stepped into the box. For many players, hitting safely in six games isn't worth much mention but Papi's brush with a .200 average was brilliance in Boston.
   
       It helped that Beckett came up aces. The Sox starter made his reaffirmation of dominance in six innings of work, eight punch outs, and just one hit. It was an inspiring performance, epitomized by his stride off the mound after every third out. "Like a gunslinger walking away from a body after a showdown."
   
      Bang-bang, Damon. Beckett's four-seamer says you're dead.
   
      Wednesday: Game two was a completely different creature. Beckett's performance proved a tough act for Wakefield to follow and the veteran knuckleballer's win didn't enter the books unflawed. Wake worked six innings for eight hits and three earned runs, including a moonshot from Yankees catcher Jorge Posada in the second inning. But so what? Posada pees on his hands. More important is the fact that Jorge's bomb only helped the Yankees to lose by less. I’ve got to pay homage to the word "loss" and all it's variations because I love it in a New York context.
   
        Exempli gratia: “Not only do the Yankees have a losing record against the can't-lose-Sox in 2009 but Thursday's loss means that these losers have lost all eight games for a season shutout thus far.”
   
        Or: “Last night when the Yanks were losing at Fenway A-Rod turned to Jeter and said, "I could get lost in your pretty eyes," to which the shortstop replied "You may be a steroid-shooting loser but I can't resist the desire to get an appletini and listen to Gordon Lightfoot with you after we lose this game.”
   
       Wednesday’s Yankees loss was actually my favorite of the two that I saw. It felt like October baseball in Boston. When Teixeira hit that dinger in the seventh off Ramon Ramirez to bring New York within one run the Sox had to get serious. Okajima and Papelbon started pounding the bullpen and “Let’s go Red Sox” chants reverberated throughout the stadium--the tension of the rivalry had returned. I even stopped feeling guilty about heckling the 9-year old in navy pinstripes who sat in front of me. Sure he was half my size, but he was also a typical 26-ring slinging Yankees fan who tried to talk trash as New York lost.
   
        Emphasis on the word loss.