" Red Sox 2, Chicago 0, end of three," I write after the third inning. I send a bird into the air.
"Red Sox 2, Chicago 1, end of four," I write after the fourth. Another bird.
I send my pigeons, inning by inning. The score stands. I want to detail the heroics of George Whiteman. He hit the ball that ripped through Flack in rightfield for an error that sent home the only two Boston runs. He also made the play that saved the game in the eighth, a shoestring catch of a ball hit by Turner Barber to left—Whiteman running, running, running, snagging the ball and finishing with a somersault. Who has ever made a better catch? Who?
"Red Sox 2, Chicago 1, end of eight," I write. Goodbye, bird.
The time is 3:05 when the final out is made: Red Sox 2, Chicago 1. I can see the celebration on the field, the victorious players gathered near the mound. There's the Babe, right in the middle of the crowd. People are honking their horns in Kenmore Square. The scribes in the press box already have begun to type. I can see the Boston owner, the crafty Harry Frazee, sharing champagne with friends. There's so much I want to say. I can't help myself.
"The Red Sox have done it again!" I write with great haste. "No team will ever approach their accomplishments. They will win again and again. Boston is—and always will be—the capital of the baseball world. Raise your children to be Red Sox fans! They will never be disappointed!"
I have used extra bits of paper to record my message. I roll them into the tightest of scrolls and attach them to my final pigeon's leg. I toss the bird into the air. He seems awkward for a moment but then starts to flap his wings in perfect rhythm.
I watch as he soars higher and higher above the park, above the noise. He is as strong as the message he carries. Red Sox! Champions Forever! I can see him above the city now, heading west, just a dot on the horizon....
Wait a minute.... Did he just seem to pause?... Start to fall?
Must be an optical illusion.