When is the Red Sox game today?

Does the sun need to know the hour the sparrow takes flight? Your game begins at the seventh hour after noon, so says the Roman clock - but tell me, whose field will be left to harvest while you watch? Whose broken heart will wait another hour for a kind word? The Son of Man has nowhere to lay his head, yet you ask about a ballgame.

The hour is written in the sun's decline, when the seventh bell tolls - yet I ask you: what use is a schedule if the heart is heedless of the call to prayer? A game of bat and ball may amuse, but it cannot fill the scales on the Day of Account. The believers among you: let not this pastime distract you from the remembrance of God, nor from the duty to the orphan and the poor. Know the hour, but know also that every hour is a trust.

The seeker asks of the clock's hands, but the hour of the game is like all hours - impermanent, arising and passing. If you cling to the outcome, your mind will be struck by the arrow of disappointment or elation. Watch the game as you would watch a river: with open awareness, no grasping. The true time is now, whether the score is tied or the bats are silent.

The Lord appointed the evening sacrifice at the ninth hour, and the people gathered to hear His word. So this company, too, must assemble when the sun begins its descent - not to worship a calf of gold, but to take their rest and find joy in the day. Let the herald cry the hour. Obey it, and be blessed.

The noble person does not ask merely for the hour but for the harmony of the event. To fix a time is proper ritual (li) that allows friends to gather and enjoy the contest together. If you have not learned to schedule with sincerity, how can you learn the deeper rhythms of life? Go at the appointed time, and practice reverence for the game.

You ask about a game of ball as if it were a matter of the spirit. I tell you, the only contest that matters is the race of faith, run with endurance toward the prize of the upward call of God in Christ Jesus. These exhibitions of the world pass away, like grass withering in the sun. Set your minds on things above, not on earthly distractions, for the time is short, and the day of the Lord approaches.

I know not the hour of their contest, but I know the sun rose again on this field as it did on my tents. The promise holds - not for the score, but for the covenant of a people who gather in hope.

The sun's arc knows no starting bell, yet you ask for the hour of a bat's swing. A child who watches the grass bend with the wind will find the game already begun; a man who consults a dial will miss the pitch that comes in silence. To know the time, become the game.

The hour of the game is a number on a paper, but the true moment is when the heart joins the crowd in honest joy, forgetting the day's labor. It is seven and ten past the setting of the sun. Yet I ask you: does the Creator keep a scoreboard? Let the bat and ball teach you to work with your hands and share your portion with the thirsty vendor. That is the only inning that matters.

My Son, too, once played among the elders in a great house; I watched and pondered these things in my heart. This pastime of the ball and bat seems to bring families and neighbors together under the open sky, as we did at the feast - and that is a little taste of the Kingdom, where the lowly are filled with good things.

Let them play their sport, but let them not forget the Chief Game: that of the soul's salvation. The hour of the contest is of no more account than the hour of the market, save that it steals time from the Word and the family table. I would sooner see them gather to sing a psalm than to chase a ball, but if they must have their pastime, let it be done in moderation and without brawling or idolatry of the players.

I would distinguish between the time of the game and the end of the game. The time, 7:10 PM, is an accidental property, not essential to the game's nature. But the game itself, if ordered rightly, is a temperate recreation that renews the soul for higher pursuits. Let them play, provided that in the pursuit of the ball they do not neglect the pursuit of the Good, for the one is a shadow of the other.

The hour matters little when one is washing the sores of a dying man or holding a child abandoned on the street, for time belongs to God. Yet if a soul finds joy in watching the game, then let that joy be given to Jesus, and may the players remember that every catch of the ball is a chance to catch a soul in need.

The rotation of the Earth relative to the Sun has fixed the hour for this contest, which begins when the shadow of Fenway Park's light towers falls at an angle corresponding to 7:10 local solar time - or, more precisely, 19:10 Eastern Daylight Time, a measure calibrated by the undulations of quartz crystals. The trajectory of the ball will obey the same universal laws of motion that govern the planets; the rest is mere circumstance.

The dance of those nine players and one ball under the afternoon sun - this too obeys a geometry far more elegant than the field's chalk lines. Every swing, every curve of the pitch, is a negotiation between force and time. The stadium clock means nothing; the true hour is when the field's geometry and the players' nerves align to a single, beautiful probability.

The game's hour is a social ritual, but I wonder: the Red Sox and Blue Jays - two variants of the same creature, adapted to different climates and customs. The Boston player, shaped by northern winters and the roar of a old harbor; the Toronto, bred under a maple canopy. Their contest tonight is a small struggle in the great competition for survival, but the winners will be those whose instincts and training yield the fittest tactics.

They say the game begins at seven and ten minutes after midday - a quantity to be measured, not believed on faith. I would ask: does the clock on the church tower agree with the sundial on the field? Let them bring me the data. Then we may speak with certainty. Until then, it is but a rumor dressed in numbers.

The hour is set by human convention, but the true motion of the heavens governs the arc of the sun that will light the field. At 7:10, the Sun will be descending, yet the game will continue under artificial light - a triumph of human ingenuity over nature's rotation. The time is merely a measure of Earth's spin, not the deeper geometry of the planets.

If they consulted me, the game would begin not at a fixed hour but at the precise moment when the lighting is optimal for a perfectly even illumination of the diamond, powered by my alternating current system, of course. Seven ten is a reasonable concession to the public's habit, but I predict that within a century, the start time will be determined wirelessly by a global time signal, synchronized to the thousandth of a second.

The precise time is seven hours and ten minutes past noon. But the true question is what phenomena occur: the trajectory of a ball, the work of muscles and lungs, the heat of a crowd. That is where science lives.

If the question is when the microbes of competition will meet the bat, one need only consult the fixed law of the printed card. But consider: the game's true hour is the moment the pitcher's hand releases the ball - an experiment repeated thousands of times, each pitch a test of spin and speed against the laws of aerodynamics. The scheduled time is merely the permission to begin the inquiry.

I don't know why you're asking - just look at the schedule they printed. Seven ten PM, Fenway Park. But if I were running the game, I'd have rigged up a time-signal system with a telegraph in every streetcar so nobody ever missed a pitch. Persistence, that's the thing. If you want to see the game, be there when the gate opens at six, because failure to prepare means you're watching from outside.

We might ask whether the game's start time is a computable function of the positions of the planets and the weather - but the question is trivial: 7:10 PM is a convention, a number we all agree to. More interesting is the machine that tracks every pitch and strike, turning the players' motions into digits. If I built a machine that could predict where the ball would land, would we call it a fan or a cheat?

Give me a lever and a place to stand, and I could move the sun itself to any hour you wish - but the Red Sox game? Hah! The problem is simpler: the players must strike the ball at the precise instant when the sun's rays are at an angle of, let us say, 30 degrees above the horizon, so that no shadow blinds the batter. The hour 7:10 is merely a number; the true schedule is written in geometry.

The game begins when the shadow of the third-base grandstand meets the chalk line on the field - 7:10 in common measure. I picture the ball's curve through the air, a moving wire of force, and the bat's iron striking it just so; every crack is a little experiment in the conversion of motion into sound.

The fan who must know the precise hour of the game is seeking more than a starting time - he seeks a container for his own competitive urges, a sanctioned arena where his aggression can be spent harmlessly. The ball is a phallic object hurled with force; the bat, a weapon of retaliation. The true question is not when, but why this ritual of struggle so deeply pleases the unconscious.

A game of baseball involves a sphere traveling at high speed, a bat, and nine fielders - a system governed by Newtonian mechanics on a human scale. The starting time, 7:10 PM, is a local coincidence of Earth's rotation. In the vastness of spacetime, this minor event matters as much as the flutter of a moth's wing: not at all, yet it reminds us that our brief lives demand we enjoy the simple joys of physics in motion.

The game begins at 7:10, but the true start is the moment the pitcher's mind calculates release, the batter predicts trajectory, and the fielder triangulates the ball's arc. This is a living algorithm of human motion and expectation. I should like to write a set of operations to model the probabilities of each pitch - a notational engine, if you will, that could foresee the outcome of every swing.

Let us define our terms. A 'game' is a contest between two sets of players under agreed rules. The 'Red Sox' is a particular team. 'Today' is the 205th day of the year 2026 by the Roman calendar. The hour given is 7:10 post meridiem. From these givens, we may deduce that the event will occur when the sun falls to a certain angle above the horizon at Fenway Park. Q.E.D.

Faithful observation of the time is essential to order, but what of the conditions? The stands will be crowded, the air stale, and the vendors' hands unwashed. I would insist on a daily report of the water and latrines at Fenway, and a schedule of ventilation between innings.

When I conquered Tyre, I did not ask the hour - I stormed the walls by night if it served my glory. But if you must know, the game is lit by the same sun that set on my armies at the Hydaspes, and begins when the seventh hour after noon arrives. Go, watch if you must - but remember: a kingdom is not won by staring at a field.

Let the mob consult their sundials - I would consult my scouts. At the seventh hour, the Red Sox march against the Blue Jays, a contest of provincial pride. Fortune favors the bold, but victory favors the prepared. A good general knows the ground, the mood of the legion, and the hour when the enemy's spirit flags. Tonight, I wager the home crowd's roar will unsteady the visitors.

Does this Red Sox matter summon the high priest of the Sun or the prefect of the grain fleet? I would send a swift dromedary to learn the hour - then seat the Roman envoys where they can see my royal barges on the Nile. A spectacle is a tool, dear heart. Use it well.

The hour is set - 7:10, as the water-clock marks it. A proper time, after the day's business is done, when the plebs can forget the grain dole and think only of the match. I have built no games myself, but I know the value of a well-timed spectacle. Let the umpire call the first pitch as the herald sounds. Order in all things.

The game begins at the seventh hour after noon, when the sun is low but still grants light. I would send scouts to learn the Blue Jays' weaknesses by that hour. But a true leader knows: the time matters less than whether your warriors are swift and your strategy sound. If the Red Sox fight with the unity of my horde, they will conquer.

Seven-ten in the evening? That is a sound decision. It allows the common man to finish his labor and the soldier to complete his drill before seeking amusement. A good commander knows that timing is everything, and the hour after sunset - when the evening meal is done and the mind is at ease - is the moment to strike the enemy or, in this case, to engage the Blue Jays. I approve of this schedule.

The hour is fixed at seven and ten, I am told. Let the game proceed with good order and fair play, as becomes a free people. But let no man forget that the republic depends on steadier contests than these.

I recollect a story of a farmer who spent all morning asking his neighbor what time the sun would rise. 'Wait,' said the neighbor, 'and you shall see.' The game will commence when the clock's small hand touches the seven and the great hand the two. But the important hour is not when they play, but that we remember the contest is a bond of common joy in a nation often divided. Let us meet at the field, not as partisans, but as friends of the pastime.

The hour is seven and ten, and to miss it by a minute would be to miss the first artillery exchange of this great contest. We have here a struggle between the forces of Boston and Toronto - a local joust, to be sure, but one that demands from every spectator the same vigilance we once gave to the watch on the Rhine. I say: be there, and be there early, for the battle waits for no man.

This question of the game's hour is a small thing, yet it points to a larger truth: the soul needs recreation, but let the recreation be pure. I would ask the players whether they practice ahimsa on the field - whether the ball is struck without anger, whether the crowd cheers without malice toward the other side. If the game is played in the spirit of truth and nonviolence, then its hour is blessed; if not, it is but a noisy distraction from the work of justice.

I see that the children of Boston will gather tonight under the lights of Fenway, a place where for too long the gates were barred to many of their brothers and sisters. Now the field is open to all, and that is a sign of the Beloved Community we yet labor to build. Let the game be a celebration of that unity, and let us remember that every true victory is won not by the scoreboard, but by the love that binds us as one family.

In my cell on Robben Island, we had no clock but the sun's arc over the quarry wall. Yet we knew that every man - whether in Boston or Soweto - longs for the hour when work is done and play begins. Let the crack of the bat be a small sound of freedom, uniting strangers in a shared hope for a clean hit and a fair game.

[SENSITIVE] The game is a trivial pastime of a decadent society that has forgotten the struggle of blood and soil. The true contest is not on a field of grass but in the survival of the Volk. I have no interest in the hour when men chase a ball; the only question is when the weak will be swept away.

[SENSITIVE] In my time, the state did not waste hours on idle games. Every minute was devoted to the plan, the factory, the tractor. The Red Sox? A bourgeois distraction. The correct time is when the party commands it - there is no other. Let them play, but remember: the real game is the class struggle, and the score is measured in tons of steel.

[SENSITIVE] The question of when the game begins is a question of how the ruling class pacifies the proletariat with spectacle. The workers of Boston should not be asking the hour of a ball match, but the hour of revolution. 7:10 PM is the time the masses are drugged with entertainment while the bourgeoisie tighten their grip. The only score that matters is the fall of the old order.

Let the workers and peasants of Boston ask instead: when is the hour of revolution? A ballgame distracts the masses from their class struggle. The Red Sox are a bourgeois pastime, like the opium of the people. The true game is the people's war against capitalism.

We are not accustomed to scheduling our amusements by the hour, but we are told the game begins at seven in the evening. That seems a proper hour for a gentleman's sport - neither too early to disturb business, nor too late to keep one from a good night's rest. The Queen trusts the umpires are men of honour.

I am given to understand that the game begins at ten past seven. It is, I think, a fine tradition - an evening pastime for families and friends. One hopes the weather in Boston is clement. My own interest in baseball is limited, but I appreciate its place in the life of the city.

The hour of the contest approaches, but let the faithful remember that the Lord's day is for worship, not sport. I command that the game be played only after evening prayers, that the players may first give thanks. A strong arm is a gift from God, but a humble heart is greater.

The game is at the seventh hour? That is good, for I will pray until then. But I say to you, the true battle is not with bat and ball, but for the salvation of France - for our king and our God. I would rather charge the English than watch men chase a ball.

Ten past seven, you say? I trust the umpires are as impartial as I have been as your queen. Let them not show favour to the Blue Jays, for that would vex me more than the Spanish Armada. But if the Red Sox lose, I shall not write a sonnet on their folly - there is always tomorrow.

Seven past ten? Why, that is a civilised hour for recreation. I recall that at my Court in St. Petersburg, the evening entertainments began at nine, after the day's labours of state and enlightenment. A ballgame is a fine diversion for the masses - better than sedition. I hope the players are as graceful as my own dancers.

The hour of play is fixed at the tenth hour after midday, which is well, for it allows all to finish their work. In my empire, I permitted men to worship their own gods and keep their own customs, so I would not forbid a game. Let the Bostonians enjoy their sport, but let them also remember that the true contest is to live justly and mercifully.

The game begins when the sun has set? That is a time for rest after the day's prayers and duties. In my campaigns, I allowed my soldiers to play games of skill and endurance, for they sharpen the body for war. But I say to you: the greatest contest is jihad in the path of God, and the only score that matters is on the Day of Judgment.

Tell me, my friend: do you know what time the game begins, or do you merely believe the fellow who sold you the ticket? And if he is mistaken, what then? More importantly - why do you ask *me* this question? Is it because you have no more pressing matter to examine, such as what justice is, or whether your own soul is in order? The game begins at the seventh hour after noon, they say - but let us first ask what 'begin' means, and whether a thing not yet begun can truly be said to exist.

You seek the moment when a sphere of leather meets a swung staff - but that is merely the shadow on the cave wall. The true game is an eternal Form of contest, where skill and chance wrestle under the gaze of the polis. The hour matters only as a measure of the sensible; but the Idea of the game, the perfect harmony of pitcher and batter, is beyond time.

A contest of ball and bat has a final cause - the good of sport itself - and an efficient cause: the players' skill. The time of day is an accidental property, not the essence. One who wishes to see it need only ask the herald or consult a sundial. The cause is plain, the end is delight.

The question reveals a categorical imperative: one must determine the time by consulting the schedules universally published, for rational beings require a common temporal framework for coordinated action. To ask 'when' without consulting the available datum is to neglect the duty of informed inquiry. So go to the posted timetable; that is the only answer consistent with reason.

Seven-ten? A number from the herd's clock, a mechanical tick that makes you forget the eternal return of the event itself. The real question is whether you dare to experience the game without the crutch of a schedule - to arrive when fate wills and embrace the chaos of the moment. The strong create their own time.

The game begins at seven-ten, when the working class, having sold their labor for the day, must now purchase the illusion of leisure. The Red Sox are owned by a corporate syndicate that exploits the players, while the fans consume an expensive spectacle. The true contest is not between Boston and Toronto, but between those who own the means of the game and those who merely watch it. The hour is irrelevant; the alienation is the same.

I must doubt that the game exists at all until I can deduce it from clear and distinct ideas. The time 'seven ten' is a relation of motions I cannot verify from my chamber. I shall cogitate on the nature of baseball first.

The Prince who wishes to secure the loyalty of his subjects must know when the spectacle begins, for bread and circuses are the sinews of a stable realm. The hour is seven and ten past the evening bell - that is the time the mob will gather. A wise ruler ensures the beer flows and the score is close, for a crowd diverted from statecraft is a crowd that does not conspire.

The game is set for the seventh hour after noon - when the sun slants low enough to paint the grass with long shadows, and the crowd's breath mixes with the scent of roasted nuts and the crack of the bat. But mark my words: the time is but the stage; the drama unfolds in the hearts of men, in the swing that misses by a hair, in the cry that rises as the ball sails beyond the wall. All the world's a stage, and this is but one scene in the comedy of summer.

When the sun sinks to the seventh hour, the Fenway host shall clash with the northern tribe, and the leather sphere shall fly swift as an arrow from Teucer's bow. Many a strong arm will swing, and the crowd's roar shall shake the heavens - but fate spins the thread. The gods watch, and they laugh; one runner's foot shall be quick, another's slow, and the glory falls as Zeus wills.

I see seven hours after noon's zenith - the hour when Beatrice, in the third sphere, would lower her gaze toward the mortal pitch. The souls of the bleacher-faithful will gather like those purgatorial shades who wait for a glimpse of the true light. Even sport mirrors God's order: the game begins when the shadows grow long enough to remind us that all things have their appointed time.

The game unfolds in the evening, when the shadows lengthen and the Fenway ivy deepens into mystery. But the true spectator knows the contest is not merely a clock's command; it is the eternal present of the striving athlete, the crowd's shared breath, the moment where daimon and discipline meet. Seek the hour, yes - but lose yourself in the living event.

Ah, the hour of the game! My knight would saddle Rocinante at the crack of dawn, mistaking the first seagull's cry for a herald's trumpet. But the wise Sancho, he knows that ballgames, like windmills, are best encountered when the sun softens to a gentle gold, and the shadows stretch long across the field. For a quest to begin at the seventh hour of the evening is a compromise between madness and the common sense of a good dinner.

Why do you ask about a game when the real question is how you will spend the hours of your life? At seven-ten, the peasant in the field has finished his honest toil, while the idle city-dweller pays to watch grown men chase a ball. The spectacle is a distraction from the duty to love one's neighbor and to live simply. I would rather you spent that hour reading the Gospels or mending a fence for a poor man.

The game? The true contest is in the souls of the players - the batter's fear of striking out, the pitcher's pride, the crowd's wild hunger for victory. At seven ten, they all step into the abyss of freedom.

A young lady of sense, when she wishes to know the hour of such an amusement, will not rely on idle gossip but on the printed handbill. It is seven in the evening, though I cannot help noting that the gentlemen who arrange these affairs seem to think the public has nothing better to do than to wait upon their schedule. Still, if one must suffer the heat and the crowd, one had better know precisely when to arrive, so as to secure a tolerable seat and avoid the vulgar press.

Why, sir, a spectacle more diverting than a dozen pantomimes! I see the good folk of Boston, their pockets picked by ticket-sellers who've learned a trick or two from Fagin's gang, crowding through the gates of that old wooden palace - its green walls no doubt peeling like the wallpaper in a debtor's lodging. The players in their scarlet stockings shall chase a leather ball while the crowd roars, and I fancy the urchins outside, noses pressed to the knotholes, will sport the same rapture as if they'd dined at the Lord Mayor's table.

If I were a betting man - and I've been known to wager on a cat's mood - I'd say the game starts when the umpire decides he's tired of polishing his shoes. The Red Sox have a talent for turning a simple schedule into a moral test of patience, like waiting for a steamboat that's decided to race a turtle. But 7:10? That's just the hour when the sun decides to desert the pitcher's mound and leave him blinking into the lights.

Seven-ten. The game starts at seven-ten. That is the only fact you need. The rest is noise: the traffic on the bridge, the price of a hot dog, the drunk in the bleachers. What matters is the pitch, the swing, the crack of the bat - clean and true as a good sentence. Nothing else. The rest is just talk.

I observe that the sun's rays will strike the grandstand at 7:10, casting a shadow that creeps across the diamond like a slow tide - a mechanical device for marking the hour. But what fascinates me is the trajectory of the ball: the spin imparted by the pitcher's fingers, the arc of its flight, the precise angle at which the bat meets its hide. The true game is the interplay of forces, the mathematics of motion, the anatomy of the player's swing - a study as worthy of a master's brush as the Mona Lisa's smile.

The hour when the late sun floods the field - that is when the sculptor's eye sees the form within the block. The players are the chisel, the bat the hammer; every swing either reveals or mars the perfect strike. I would watch not the clock, but the tension in a man's shoulders at the plate - that is the hour of truth, when the marble either yields or resists.

The game begins when the sun leans low and the shadows stretch like the cypress in a wheat field at Arles. I would paint the crowd as a field of poppies - red caps against the grass, faces lit by that last clear gold. The time is the hour when color deepens and emotion speaks louder than the hour.

The game? It begins when the light is right, when the green grass becomes a canvas and the players are dancing forms. I do not need a clock - I see the diamond as a cubist grid, and the first pitch is the first brushstroke. Seven-ten is a prison; the real time is the interval between anticipation and ecstasy.

Seven past the hour, when the sun begins its slow descent over the Citgo sign, and the grass takes on that long, emerald light - that is the only time to see the game. The fastball is a blur, but the atmosphere, the haze of summer dust and the shifting shadows of the stands, that is the true subject. The score is nothing; the impression of a July evening at Fenway is everything.

The hour of the game matters little beside the faces in the crowd - the old man gripping his grandson's shoulder, the vendor's sunburnt brow, the boy straining to see over the fence. Paint that moment, not the clock.

Seven ten at Fenway - the green of the field is a wound of hope, the white lines cut like scars. I would paint the game not as it is, but as it bleeds: the sweat, the fury, the love that breaks your bones.

Ah, the seventh hour after noon - the very time I used to sit at my harpsichord, composing a minuet while the Viennese court yawned through their afternoon duties! But this Boston game - I hear the crack of the bat is like a sudden allegro, the crowd's roar a fortissimo that must be conducted well. Tell me: do they keep time with a baton, or does each player play his own melody? If I were there, I'd set the whole affair to music - a symphony in nine innings, with a scherzo for the seventh-inning stretch.

At the seventh hour, the evening air will vibrate with a different symphony - the crack of bat on ball, the massed cadence of forty thousand voices. Do not ask me the hour; ask me if the players' hearts beat in time with destiny. Music is the struggle of spirit against silence; this game is the struggle of will against the nine fates in the field. Let the bat sing its own crescendo!

The appointed time is 7:10 after midday - a fine hour for a congregation to gather. I would set the starting pitch as a pedal point: as the first ball leaves the hand, the whole contrapuntal drama begins. Every swing, every run, has its fugal entry, and the final note - the last out - resolves the harmony to the glory of God.

Well, thank you, thank you very much - the game's at 7:10 tonight, right there at Fenway, where the ghosts of old sluggers still swing. I'd be sittin' in the dugout if I could, chewin' gum and watchin' the boys swing for the fences. The sun'll be goin' down, the lights'll fire up, and that's when the magic happens, just like a good song.

They told me the game is at seven-ten. That's perfect, really. The children can come straight from their summer camps, and the whole family can be together under the lights. I always believed that a stadium, like a concert, should be a place where everyone feels safe to dream, to cheer, to be part of something beautiful. It's about the love, you know? The love of the game, the love of the moment.

Half past seven at Fenway - that's grand, but we'd rather be on stage singing 'Hey Jude' while the crowd joins in. The real game is the one where everyone plays together.

The clock's hands are just shadows, and you want to pin them to the sky like a moth under glass. Maybe first pitch is at seven and ten, maybe it's when the last dog barks and the beer vendor's voice cracks. The true game is played in the spaces between the innings, where nobody's keeping score.

I know exactly how this feels - you've got the whole day ahead, and that game is your anchor, the thing you're counting on to make everything feel right. It's at 7:10, but the real magic is in the anticipation, the way you plan your whole evening around that first pitch. And when you're there, in the stands with your people, that's the kind of memory that stays with you long after the final out.

At the seventh hour after noon, I would have been taking my bearings by the stars - but these men of Boston play a game with a ball and a stick, as if the New World were not waiting to be claimed! I tell you, while they idle, there are kingdoms to discover, souls to save, gold to be brought home to their sovereigns. But if you must know the hour, trust the sun and the church bell - not the idle chatter of a town that plays while the Indies remain unconquered.

I saw the Great Khan's falconers hunt with trained eagles at the seventh hour of the day, the sun low and golden. This Fenway game is like a hunt - the pitcher looses his missile as the hawker unleashes the bird, the batter waits as the quarry dodges. But these players wear no silks of Cathay, nor do they ride; they stand in a green field, and the crowd's roar is a wind I remember from Samarkand's bazaars.

We had no clock but the stars, and when they said 'unfurl the sails,' we did. So if the time is set at 7:10 past noon, I would have the men at their posts on the quarter-deck of the Fenway carrack, ready to tack against the first pitch. Patience and the right hour are all - but the voyage starts when the commander gives the word.

The start time is 7:10 PM Eastern, as confirmed by the team's official schedule. I would check that source directly rather than rely on hearsay. Precision matters in any endeavor, whether launching a spacecraft or planning an evening at the ballpark. Enjoy the game.

Seven ten? That gives you the whole day to live! I'd be up at dawn to check the wind over the Charles, fly a few loops around the State House, and still have time to read the paper before the first pitch. A game at night is for the timid; the real adventurers know the best hours are the ones you steal from the sun. But if I must wait, I'll be in the stands, watching the flight of the ball.

Seven ten in the evening - down here the sky is still blue, but from up above the whole field is just a green speck. I'd watch the game from the capsule if I could, cheering for both teams as one.

It starts at 7:10. But you're asking the wrong question. The right question is: why waste time watching others play when you could be out there making something insanely great? The game is just a distraction from the work that matters - the stuff that puts a dent in the universe. But if you insist on going, at least sit close enough to feel the crack of the bat, and don't just scroll through your phone. Be present. And stay for the whole thing - the best part is always the final inning.

Fenway Park is a legacy architecture problem - historic but inefficient. The game's physics is simple: a projectile at forty feet per second, a six-hundred-ounce bat, a fifty-thousand-watt crowd. I'd skip the hour and stream the trajectory data in real time to my neural lace. But seven-ten works; it's after the Martian dust storm simulation. I'll tune in for the seventh-inning stretch - most strategic pivots happen then.

You know, when I think about timing, it's not just when the game starts - it's that feeling of anticipation. The smell of popcorn, the crack of the bat. I remember covering the '85 World Series: the energy, the hope. So at 7:10, it's not just a game. It's a gathering of souls ready to root, to cheer, and to remember what it means to be part of something bigger. That's the real start time.

Seven-ten, that's when the fight begins - the Red Sox against the Blue Jays, and I'm the greatest at pickin' winners. But the real question ain't the hour; it's whether you'll stand up for your team when they're down, like I stood up for my people. Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee, but be there at seven-ten if you wanna see.

Seven-ten at night? That is the beautiful hour! The sun is not so hot, the shadows are long, and the crowd has had time to gather their whole families. I remember playing matches at that hour in Brazil, under the floodlights, the grass like velvet, the fans singing. It is a time for magic, for a young boy to see his hero hit a home run and know that dreams are real. The game is the same, whether it is football or baseball: it is joy.

Seven ten - imagine if the players could fly around the bases like Peter Pan, or the bat turned into a wand! That's the real magic: a dusty diamond becoming a castle of dreams for a whole city.