Post­sea­son base­ball brings a spe­cial energy to my neighborhood—one of eager but ner­vous antic­i­pa­tion punc­tu­ated by occa­sional moments of jubi­la­tion. One could visit any sports arena after a game to expe­ri­ence the surge of emo­tion that comes from com­mu­nion with a crowd of like-minded fans, but there are few places in the world where excite­ment pal­pa­bly lingers in the air while peo­ple are nei­ther play­ing nor watching.

I walked by Fen­way Park tonight. Hardly a per­son was to be seen, but the lights were all switched on, illu­mi­nat­ing untold activ­i­ties within the stadium’s walls: per­haps some prac­tice, some grounds care, or some other last-minute prepa­ra­tions. The alley­way out back was lined with tele­vi­sion trucks, each with iden­ti­cal anten­nae raised to broad­cast, at a moment’s notice, live images of any devel­op­ment. A bevy of new pro­duc­tion trucks idled qui­etly in the shad­owy lights of the broad­cast lot as Turner tech­ni­cians shuf­fled to and fro, open­ing road cases, unspool­ing cables, and mak­ing adjust­ments. A Ver­i­zon Wire­less portable cell was parked in a dis­tant cor­ner with masts extended, silent but ready to pro­vide hun­dreds of chan­nels of call capac­ity to a sat­u­rated cel­lu­lar phone net­work. A female sports reporter habit­u­ally adjusted her makeup in her van while a cam­era­man hefted his machine to his shoul­der. A lone secu­rity guard stood near the build­ing, idly smok­ing a cigarette.

Through the win­dows of the park one can see the empty beer stands, tap han­dles unscrewed. An emtpy cup sits on a table, for­got­ten by the jan­i­tors. Tomor­row, crowds will be lined up for their $7 Bud Lights. You can almost see their faces. I’m not much of a base­ball fan but the excite­ment is build­ing, and I can feel it too.