I picked up The Barber in Hope Valley and told him that I felt a no hitter.

The Barber is a very talented dude. (See the top of my head) He seems to know a bit about baseball, he keeps in touch with the game. Problem is this changes when he sees a game in person. But in all honesty, I may have something to do with this. I tend to influence people.

He cracks one as soon as we hit the Mass line, it's about 11:00am. I'm drinking water, he initially declines to indulge in my drug of choice, but he eventually joins in. We get to Fenway just after noon and hit the large facility. There's not much action, so after a couple I suggest we hit the Tavern. We detour into the alley, there's a couple of other guys with one lit, we exchange greetings and light one ourselves on the way to the bar.

I like the Tavern, I always flashback to the last night in 1998, the night we saw the large black man drive away forever. A guy comes by and greets me, The Barber is impressed. I spot a brother wearing a Yaz jersey but he's gone before I get over to talk to him. I'm in need of food, so I head him over to the concourse at Gate B, we miss first pitch. The Barber is not concerned.

We slide into Row 5 and there's a family with four kids, twin boys around three, a girl maybe one, and an infant. 'How cool is this. They came to see Schilling pitch I bet.'

Schilling is cruising, in the third I remember what I told The Barber in Hope Valley. Now while some will insist that I am rather superstitious, I have no problem talking about a perfect game that is in progress. Schilling gets the first 17 batters but gives up a hit with two out in the sixth. He gets a good hand.

It looks like we could have a game in under 2:30, so in the top of the eighth I lead The Barber over to Section 25, he grabs another beer on the way. At least he hasn't fallen asleep like he did in Atlanta. Seattle gets six runs to take a two run lead, Foulke gags on one. The Sox come back to tie it in the bottom half. After the ninth we decide to head to the downstairs bar for a cold one.

Halfway through the beer I start to get antsy. He buys another round and in the middle of the twelveth I tell him 'Let's go back in, the Sox are going to win it this inning.' He declines, I'm foolish enough not to leave him there.

When McCarty swung at the 3-0 pitch I jumped up right in front of the TV and watched it go into the bleachers with a beer in my fully extended right arm. I turn around and The Barber asked "What happened?"

I'm pissed at myself for missing it, so I run up the stairs to Yawkey Way and shake the hand of the first person I meet. I should have stayed at Section 25.

On the way home The Barber finds my CD's and blasts Areosmith and the Stones all the way home, while he continuously adjusts my sun visor. He thanks me several times and shakes my hand at least a half dozen times. He says he's going to tell his lady friend it's my fault he's so loaded. I'm OK with that.

I've got an appointment with The Barber on Thursday. Everything will be cool. Like I said he's a very talented dude. I just wouldn't let him come near me with his sharp instruments if he'd just come from a ballgame. I like my ears.

What do I know?