I passed the first mailbox in the second inning, a few minutes after the Sox went ahead 2-0 on a Trot Nixon home run off Roger Clemens. Cheers erupted from the windows of the brownstone and red brick apartment houses lining either side of Beacon Street. The clowns -- three apparently drunk, shirtless guys with painted faces and oversized Stetson hats sporting the emblematic "B" of their favorite team -- just sort of appeared, as if by magic. (Or else I wasn't paying attention. That's a lot more likely.) Anyway, one guy had a plastic Wiffle bat and he began beating it against a mailbox on the corner of the street. His pals were empty handed, but they joined in by screaming "Whoop! Whoooooooop!" and "Go Saaaaaaaawx!" Three college-age women trailed close behind, clutching bottles of Bud Light. Each wore a numbered jersey emblazoned with the name of a player: "Martinez," "Ramirez," "Garciaparra." They wobbled, tipsy, giggling, as their mates danced and whooped and took turns assaulting the box in a close approximation of a tribal beat. A trolley sped down the center of the street, clanging its bell and sounding its horn in salute.

II. SEND IN THE CLOWNS

The second mailbox sits in front of the stately, mid-rise '30s-era building where I live. I heard it creak open, then closed, about 1AM, as I sat in  bed, thinking back on the improbable 6-5 Yankees victory, savoring each swing that led up to Aaron Boone's decisive drive in the bottom of the 12th. Through the tense and historic contest, I'd felt a strange kinship with my neighbors. The sounds of the game bled down through the walls and ceiling, echoing from the cranked-up speakers of who-knows-how-many TV sets and radios. With each Sox hit: cheers, applause. Every Yankees advance met with a chorus of boos, catcalls and occasional muffled crashes, as if long-suffering Boston fans were beating their fists against the walks or kicking over coffee tables in disgust. A collective groan went up as Boone's blast disappeared into the Bronx night, propelling the Yanks into the World Series. Followed by the deafening silence of disbelief. There I sat, a die-hard fan of the pinstripes since the days of Billy and Reggie and Bucky (that's "Bucky F-ing Dent" in the bleachers at Fenway), a spy in the enemy's capital, so to speak. And the mainbox creaked open, then closed. Who would mail a letter at 1AM? I like to think it was connected with the game somehow, that someone was sending hate mail to Joe Torre or George Steinbrenner, or rushing a check to cover a bet they'd just lost, "Damn 
Yankees" scrawled in the space provided to explain what the payment is for. On that night, anything was possible. And everything was right with the world.