I wasn’t raised religious. My parents took me and my brother to church just a handful of times when we were young. Whenever I’ve been inside a huge church, basilica, or cathedral (and I’ve seen quite a few), I could appreciate the architectural and historical features, the roles these places once played at the center of their cities’ cultural and political lives, and even the impressive atmosphere of reverence drummed up by the other visitors’ personal stake in the made-up nonsense based on which they were built. But I never shared in that personal stake, not even in the sense of someone who escaped superstition at an advanced age, but who still bears the emotional scars of childhood indoctrination.

After my trip to Fenway Park last night, I think I finally realized what I’d been missing. Don’t get me wrong: I’m not the world’s biggest sports fan. But I did spend at least as many mornings of my youth lazing at the altar of Sports Desk as any Christian child did kneeling in the Lord’s house. And the resulting glut of graven Geen Monster imagery in my unconscious must furnish me with a similar reaction that others face when confronted by a ceiling-wide illustration of the events of the Old Testament. And Fenway is most certainly the Sistine Chapel of sports venues. The similarities are remarkable: apartment building-sized Coke and Budweiser ads replace stained-glass windows; beer, peanuts and crackerjacks replace sacrament; Jerseys and gothic-”B”-embroidered caps replace suits and bonnets; foul balls falling from the sky replace miracles; pennants and retired jerseys replace the ten commandments on the wall.

Perhaps you’re offended by my analogy, or you object to its being stated in morphological rather than semantic terms. But if last night’s experience reminded me of anything, it was that the religious experience is a thoroughly morphological one. The meaning of a religious act lies in its incidental aesthetic qualities, galvanized through age-old repetition. The green monster has been cruelly sorting home runs from doubles since before my oldest living relative was born, and the name “Cy Young” conjures less a person than a mythical character.

All of this churned in the back of my mind as I listened to the other fans taunt Manny Ramirez for committing two ugly errors, and as I watched Frank Thomas smash a home run out over left field. The reigning World Series Champion Boston Red Sox ended up falling to the Toronto Blue Jays, ten runs to three, their lead in the AL-east slightly weakened. Prior to the eighth inning, when it became obvious that no comeback could be expected, many of the fans exited, and my brother and I traded in our scalped, obstructed-view seats for more comfortable ones directly above left field. When the game was over, we sat still until the park was nearly completely empty. While some workers adjusted the statistics on the field-level manual scoreboard, we walked down to the field, onto which Rob spat, mimicking something we’d seen Nomar Garciapara and Pedro Martinez do hundreds of times while we ate our breakfasts before going to Junior High. His act is linked in my mind with all the times I’d seen people dipping their fingers in water and lighting candles in a variety of Catholic churches around the world. The difference is that, this time, I felt part of the context which made Rob’s act meaningful.

“Welcom’ta Baasten. City’a caad and raabbery”. Put’cha wallet away.”

That is what the man behind me on the escalator told me when I arrived two days ago, apparently recognizing some tourist-like physiognomy which I was not aware I exemplified. I saw very little cod and even less robbery during my stay. Instead, I wandered the streets with Robert, sponging atmosphere and blistering feet. Random treats included tree climbing and lemonade in North America’s oldest urban park, Tom Collins by the waterfront, and $4 jugs of Pabst Blue Ribbon with our pizza slices.

The pilgrimage I’ve just waxed about was spontaneous. We didn’t even think of trying to get tickets until an hour or two before game time, and we weren’t even sure there was a game on until Rob stumbled across the scalper. I also made another pilgrimage, one which which provided my official purpose for coming to Boston in the first place. We began yesterday morning by walking across the bridge to Cambridge, giving ourselves a self-guided tour of the Massachusetts Institute of Technology and Harvard University. The latter is a curiosity for me. The former is much more. For more than half a century, MIT has been the world’s center for linguistics and the philosophy thereof. In fact, there is but one “Linguistics and Philosophy” department. And what a place! It rivals the Centre George Pompidou for the most lego-like façade I’ve ever penetrated, and the interior reminds me of Science World (as if to live up to the fantasies of all those children–my young self included–who dream of being a scientist, thinking that science must have something to do with colorful walls and pictures, beanbag chairs and transparent elevators).

If I wasn’t sure about applying to MIT before I came here, I am now. Boston is a beautiful city, and the university a really inspiring place.

I’m sitting next to my brother on a bus which is careening down the Massachusetts Turnpike, on my way out of Boston, and on my way to New York City. I’ll save romanticizing my destination until after my arrival.