Anna and I reclined in our upper-deck seats, enjoying a brew and the breeze. Nearby, a khaki-shorted man sprawled his furry legs out over empty blue seats and French-kissed a yellow stew of nacho cheese and peppers. The smell of hot dogs and cigar smoke lingered in the air. But, there was no crack of the bat. There was no roar from the crowd. There was only silence. Church silence.

Then it started. Like a slumbering monster tormented with boredom, a section of the upper-deck started the ritualistic sit-stand that has come to be know as “The Wave.” It was spotty at first, but soon grew into an unstoppable force of knees, thighs, arms, elbows and hands thrust in pursuit of something big.

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