It was a freezing night at Fenway. I shivered as I filed silently onto the field with the rest of the chorus, and scooted closer to the girl in front of me for warmth. We wore matching crimson Red Sox T-shirts; the kids behind us were dressed in blue and white, representing the other parts of the American flag. We gathered in a semicircle in far left field with our backs against the Green Monster, packed tight like sardines, standing straight, chins up, preparing to sing. I was struck by how pristine — almost fake — the field appeared. The grass of the outfield, trimmed to a ridiculous degree of perfection, was almost too green, and the fans sitting in the lit, distant bleachers were distinct specs of bright color. I felt like a tiny doll in some sort of diorama constructed by a second-grade Sox fan. My boyfriend, shortstop and captain on our high-school baseball team, reached down and scooped up a handful of orange dirt to put in his pocket; this was, after all, his holy ground.
I watched the players run through their warm-ups; sprints, lunges, arm circles; I marveled at the whiteness of their uniforms and their relaxed strides. The director in front of us signaled and I ripped my eyes away from the field to focus on her, breathed deeply, and exhaled, “Oh say, can you see . . . ?”
This past Monday night, Jon Lester became the 18th player in Red Sox history to pitch a no-hitter. And, if you'll pardon my immodesty, I feel a particularly close connection with the historic moment because I sang the national anthem before the game with the Weston High School Chorus. The 150-voice group enjoyed the privilege of kicking off Lester's gem thanks to some valuable connections and the tenacious determination of the director. I am by no means a talented vocalist or even a remarkable chorus student (I had to battle my way up to finish with a C), but that night I was absolutely tuned in. I felt important — a full-fledged citizen of Red Sox Nation — and I sang my heart out.
Before I knew it, the song ended, the crowd cheered, and we scuttled off the field to grab sweatshirts. It all ended as we huddled under a blanket and prepared to scream ourselves hoarse; our singing voices, though they had served us well, were no longer needed.
