Thanks, TKAA. I never get tired of hearing stories about the '67 season and will share a few of my own.
But first, I would urge anyone here who hasn't yet read Bill Reynolds'
Lost Summer: The '67 Red Sox and the Impossible Dream to seek out a copy. Highly recommended. Reynolds does a fine job of capturing the feel of that magical summer (yes, you really could walk down the street in Boston or Cambridge and follow the game by listening to the broadcast wafting from apartment windows and transistor radios).
I had just completed a year of grad school in the spring of 1967 and decided to break precedent by not returning home at the end of the academic year, instead remaining in my Cambridge apartment. I spent a few days pretending to look for a job, then devoted the rest of the summer to drinking, hanging with weirdos, chasing women, and progressing from casual to obsessive Red Sox fan. My first-ever visit to Fenway Park came in June, a win over the hapless Yankees. The second was just a few nights later: it was the game against the White Sox when with two down in the bottom of the 11th and the Red Sox trailing 1-0, Tony Conigliaro hit a two-run shot into the net above the monster. I'd never witnessed a walkoff home run before, nor had I ever experienced such a level of crowd delirium at a sporting event. I've seen at least half a dozen walkoff homers at Fenway in the 50 years since that night (including Manny's in the 2007 ALDS), but Tony C's is the one I'll always remember the most fondly.
There was a cab driver, big Sox fan, who would come into the Bick in Harvard Square every night at the end of his shift, 2 or 3 in the morning, and recap the day's baseball events. A gifted talker, he built up a modest following and held his nightly audience spellbound, the sober and the fucked-up alike.
I was in the bleachers on September 30 and October 1. As excitement built over the course of the season, the Sox decided to put bleacher tickets up for sale in advance -- previously only available on day-of-game -- and my roommate grabbed a few for the last two games, "just in case." We were part of the "pandemonium on the field" after Rico caught the popup. All the players had safely escaped to the clubhouse by the time we reached the infield, but fans were milling about, helping themselves to every imaginable sort of souvenir. Bases and pitching rubber were long gone, but I specifically remember people tearing off pieces of the green foam rubber coaching boxes.
The weather was sunny and warm, a beautiful fall day, for game 1 of the World Series. I had moved to Banks Street by then, in the shadow of Peabody Terrace (Harvard married students housing). I remember thinking it odd that the mailman, who normally arrived at about 3pm, delivered the mail at 10am that day. We decided to watch the game at Charlie's Kitchen in Harvard Square, because they had a color TV. We got there around 11:30 to make sure we'd get a spot with good TV sightlines. When we arrived, there, already seated comfortably at the bar, was our mailman.
It's hard to convey to those who didn't live through it just how crazy and wonderful that summer was.