Will the Red Sox play today in the rain?

You worry about a few drops from the sky while the day of grace passes you by. Are not the ravens fed, and the lilies clothed? Your Father knows the Red Sox need to play. But I tell you: concern yourself not with the clouds over the ballpark, but with the treasure that no rain can rust or wash away.

The clouds hold no water, and the sun’s path is bright. But why concern yourselves with the weather of a single day? The game will proceed as God wills. Better to ask: do you play with fairness and honesty, as is commanded? For the Lord sees every strike and every foul, and on the Day of Reckoning, the score of your deeds will be read aloud.

Whether the players chase a ball under a clear sky or a wet one, their craving for victory binds them to suffering. The rain itself is not the obstacle - attachment to the outcome is. Observe the clouds, let them come or go; the wise mind finds equanimity. The game will be played or not - both are empty.

The Lord set a rainbow in the clouds as a sign of His promise, and I have seen His hand part the sea and still the storm. If the sky is clear, it is a blessing - but whether rain falls or not, the true contest is not of men but of the heart: do you trust in His provision, or fret over a drop of water?

A gentleman does not ask about rain but about propriety. The game is a ritual, and the duty is to honor it with sincerity. If the sky is clear, play; if it pours, then the junzi will find a better use for his time - studying the Odes, perhaps, rather than chasing a ball.

Do you not know that in a race, all the runners run, but only one receives the prize? A game played under a clear sky is but a shadow of the eternal contest we are called to - running the race of faith with perseverance. The weather is a trifle; what matters is whether those who watch or play are building their lives on the rock that no storm can shake, not on the shifting sand of sport.

The Lord sends rain on the just and the unjust; He also holds it back. But the day's appointed hour is in His hand, not in the clouds. If the game is to be played, it will be played - and if the rain falls, then surely it falls for a purpose we cannot yet see. Either way, I would sit and watch, trusting the One who numbers the drops and the innings alike.

Water shapes itself to the vessel; the game shapes itself to the sky. The scoreboard's busyness is a kind of folly. Watch instead the grass bending in the breeze - it knows when to yield, and when to stand. The Red Sox will play or not, but the Tao moves silently either way.

The One who sends the rain has sent fair weather today. Let the players earn their honest living with the bat and ball, and let the watchers share in the joy of honest sport. The Creator's decree is plain as the cloudless sky - there is no veil between the game and its purpose. Play on, and remember the Giver of every good pitch.

The Father sends rain upon the just and the unjust alike, and He knows when the sparrow falls. If the skies are clear, then it is a gift - a moment to gather as one people, to share in the simple delight of a contest played under His watchful eye. My heart is at peace; let the children play.

The weather is God's province, not man's - let no papal decree or astrologer's almanac presume to bind the Almighty. If the game is played, let it be in faith, not fear of a drop. But I say, a Christian has better work than chasing a ball: to read the Word and pray for the harvest, which truly depends on rain.

It is fitting that the natural order, governed by divine providence, should cooperate with human recreation. Since no rain is expected, the game may proceed without hindrance to the participants' health or the spectators' comfort. Yet one must consider whether the Lord's Day is honored; if it be a day of rest, let the game be played with thanksgiving, not greed.

If the rain comes and the game is called off, perhaps someone can use that time to visit the sick or feed a hungry child. But the forecast shows no rain, so they will play.

The barometer stands steady, the hygrometer shows no sign of approaching moisture, and the aerial currents flow without disturbance. From the laws of nature, one may deduce with certainty that a play of nine innings will proceed undisturbed by any aqueous interruption.

A 0% probability of rain? That is a curious notion - as if the heavens keep a ledger. The weather, like all things, unfolds from the dance of pressure and temperature, a deterministic waltz of molecules. If the forecast is sound, the game will play; but remember, even a perfect model cannot banish the quantum flutter. God does not dice with clouds, but He permits them their lawful caprice.

From my barnacle studies, I learned that the weather is a matter of endless variation, yet the forecast of 0% rain seems plausible given the observed pressure gradient. The Red Sox, like any species, must adapt to their environment - but tonight, no adaptation is needed. I should be curious to see how the Athletics' variations affect the contest.

I would rather trust the evidence of a weather glass and the careful observation of the sky than all the old wives' tales or the opinions of the crowd. The forecast says no rain - Eppur si gioca! Yet they will play! Let those who doubt look to the barometer, for nature speaks clearly to those who measure her.

The heavens today present no obstacle: the air is dry, the clouds are scant, and the motion of the spheres is untroubled. Just as I held that the Sun, not the Earth, governs the order of the planets, so here the plain geometry of the weather shows the game shall proceed. Let the players take the field under the clear vault of the sky.

Their concern with a few drops of water falling from the sky is laughable to one who has harnessed lightning itself. The real question is not whether the rain will fall, but why we have not yet created a transparent dome that controls climate with a pulse of alternating current. I could power the stadium, dry the field, and project the game onto the clouds - if only they had the vision to let me.

The probability of precipitation is zero percent, given the atmospheric conditions - dry air, high pressure, stable temperature gradients. There is no empirical reason to doubt the forecast. Let us not waste energy on speculation when the data are clear. One should reserve doubt for the uncertain, not for the well-measured.

The barometer stands steady at 30.12 inches, and the hygrometer reads sixty percent - no condensation on the flask. I have examined the sky's broth under the lens of the day's forecasts and find no bacillus of rain. The game will proceed, as sure as fermentation follows a pure culture.

I've tested the sky with my own instruments - a wet-bulb thermometer, a barometer I built myself. Zero percent chance means zero percent chance. The game's a go, and if they want to win, they'll work harder than the forecast. I didn't invent the light bulb by hoping for sunshine; I kept at it till the filament glowed. Same with baseball: show up, try a thousand pitches, and one of them will be a strikeout.

The question reduces to a trivial computation: given a probability of precipitation of zero, the event 'rain' is logically false. Therefore the game proceeds as scheduled. What intrigues me is the human tendency to anthropomorphize the weather - a superstition as persistent as a stuck bit. We have the data; why consult the heavens?

Given the angle of the sun and the weight of air pressing down, the moisture in the sky would need to gather into drops of a certain diameter - but I have no hygrometer nor a lever long enough to move the clouds. Yet my reason tells me: the forecast is a calculation, as sure as the law of the lever. Let them play; I would rather calculate the path of the ball.

The barometer holds steady, the air dry and still. I should like to see the anemometer's vane - if not a breath of wind stirs it, then no cloud will bring its burden to the ground. The forces are not at work to produce rain tonight.

The question of whether rain will fall is a surface anxiety that masks a deeper one: is it safe to hope for pleasure, or must we prepare for disappointment? The weather forecast is merely a rationalization; what matters is the wish that the game - and the joy it promises - be allowed to proceed.

A zero percent chance of rain means the laws of physics are cooperating. If the Red Sox lose, at least they cannot blame the weather - only their own gravitational errors.

If I were to devise a machine that could predict the weather based on pressure and humidity, I should have it calculate the odds of a postponement. But with the sky clear and no moisture in the air, the game proceeds as surely as a well-coded algorithm runs its course.

If the day is dry and the heavens bear no sign of water, then it is impossible for rain to fall during the game. That is a necessary truth from the given premises, requiring no further proof.

The chance of rain is nil, based on barometric readings and a clear forecast. But what of the conditions underfoot? A damp field can breed injury. I would insist the grounds be drained and the players' quarters aired, lest miasma invite disease. Statistics spare lives, even in sport.

Rain? Hah! When I marched on Tyre, the sea itself did not stop me. If there were a downpour I'd say: let the game be played in mud, as we fought in the rain at the Hydaspes! The Red Sox should play whether Zeus sends thunder or sun - victory belongs to those who dare.

The legions of Boston must march tonight, and the sky holds no quarrel. I have seen the deluge halt for a more decisive commander - the gods favor those who act, not those who consult auguries in fear of a little water. Let them play; fortune, as ever, sides with the bold.

The gods send rain or hold it back as they will, but I would not trust a Roman oracle's promise of clear skies - nor let my fleet sail without a second anchor. If I were the Red Sox's strategist, I would have a pavilion ready and a bribe for the umpire, just in case.

I have seen the games in the Circus Maximus postponed by a sudden downpour - and wise is the official who heeds the omens and the augurs. But if the sky is clear, let the contest proceed, for a people who gather in the stadium are a people content, and a content people are a stable realm. The Red Sox should play, and I would have my name linked to the victory, not the delay.

The sky is empty of clouds, the earth is firm, and the horses are rested. A true warrior does not ask permission from the weather - he acts. Let the game be played, and let the stronger prevail. Any who hesitate because of a little wind are not worthy of my army.

A general does not cancel the battle because of a little rain. Austerlitz was fought in a morning mist, and I conquered half of Europe through mud and snow. These players call themselves athletes? Let them play! True glory is seized in adversity. If the storm comes, they will learn more in one wet inning than in a hundred sunny games. Besides, I have no interest in a contest that depends on the mercy of the sky.

In my time, we did not consult a weather glass for every undertaking - we looked at the sky, felt the air, and used common sense. If the report says clear, then the game goes forward, and I trust the judgment of those whose duty it is to decide. But let us not make a great fuss about a drop of water: the business of the day is the game, not the weather.

I've known a few storms that came on unannounced - the Washington weather can't match the farmers' almanac. But the telegraph and the sky agree: it's clear. So the boys will take the field, as they should, and we'll see if their bats speak louder than the wind. A game is a small republic; it needs only fair conditions to test its strength.

The meteorologists have spoken, and their verdict is clear: no foul weather in the offing. The Red Sox shall take the field undeterred, as British pluck never yielded to a mere drizzle - let alone a cloudless sky. Let the Athletics beware: when the sun is on the visitors' side, the home team's spirit is twice as hot. Play ball, and may the best tribe win.

Why do we fret over a shower when the world drowns in blood? The game is a trifle - but if it brings joy to the weary, let it be played under any sky. I care only that no child goes hungry while men toss a ball for profit. Let the rain fall or stay; the real question is whether our hearts are dry of compassion.

The threat of rain is a small matter compared to the storms of injustice that darken our land. But I rejoice that the game will go on - a symbol of hope that even in troubled times, we can gather in fellowship across the lines that divide us. May the players and fans see in this simple contest a vision of the beloved community, where all are welcome and the sun breaks through.

The elements do not consult our plans; but when the sky is clear and the forecast speaks of no rain, we can trust that the game will go forward.

The Aryan love for sport is strong, but the weather is no mystery: if the sky is clear, the game will be played. The important thing is that the stadium is filled with racially pure spectators, not mongrels.

The forecast is clear, so the game will be played. The workers deserve their entertainment after a hard day's labor for the state. Any hint of cancellation would be a bourgeois indulgence in indecision.

The weather is a small bourgeois concern. The true question is whether the proletariat can seize its leisure time from the capitalists who profit from the game. But tonight the sky is clear, so the spectacle goes on.

A mere caprice of the sky! The Red Army of Boston must play - revolution does not halt for a drizzle. Let the imperialists shiver in their dry boxes; the masses will cheer through any weather, for their will is the true sun.

The weathermen declare it fair, and so it shall be. Our loyal subjects deserve orderly amusement, not the damp chaos of a cancelled match. I trust the Metropolitan Police have ensured proper arrangements - one cannot have common rowdiness on a pleasant evening.

The forecast is clear, and I am sure the players and officials will proceed with their duty. Such events bring people together in shared enjoyment, which is a fine thing. One can only hope all goes smoothly for those attending.

Let the game be played! A clear sky is God's sign for sport after the day's labor. But I would have the players remember their prayers before the contest - idle amusement must not stray from Christian discipline. May no injury mar the match.

The heavens are clear, so there is no sign to stay their play. But if a sudden storm came, I would say: trust in God's will, not the idle chatter of men. The voices told me to fight rain or shine; so should they play with courage, whatever the sky decides.

I see no clouds in the almanac, and my good astrologer confirms it. So let them bat and run - I know a thing or two about keeping court in fine weather. But I wager the players care more for their purses than the people's cheer; still, we shall see if they prove worthy of the spectacle.

The barometer is steady; the game proceeds. I admire this American pastime - it requires strategy, strength, and a touch of luck, much like ruling an empire. Let them play, and may the better team prevail. As for rain, one learns in Russia to plan for all seasons.

The gods have granted a dry evening, so let the contest be held. I have always found that sport unites men across tribes - it is a small peace. Let the players enjoy their game, and the spectators their leisure. A wise king ensures his people have such joys.

The sky is clear - blessings of the All-Merciful. Let the game proceed; it is a harmless amusement. I recall watching horsemen play polo after a battle; such joy is a gift. May the players conduct themselves with honor, and may no dispute mar the evening.

Tell me, friend: what do you truly mean by 'play'? Do you speak of the contest between athletes, or something else - the delight of the crowd, the pursuit of victory, the earning of silver? And what is 'rain' but water falling from above? Before we ask whether the game will happen, perhaps we should ask why the game matters. Do you know?

The question concerns ephemeral droplets and a fleeting contest of bodily skill, yet you seek certainty from the mutable realm of sense. The only true 'play' is that of the philosopher contemplating the eternal Forms. Whether this shadow-game occurs depends on the chance concurrence of vapors - trivial, like the changing hues on a cave wall.

To predict whether the game will proceed, one must consider the final cause of the event - the purpose for which the players and spectators gather. But the efficient cause, the weather, has been observed with instruments: the air is dry, the barometer steady. Therefore, by empirical reasoning, the game will likely occur as scheduled, though a prudent man would still carry a cloak.

The determining ground of action here is not the mere empirical fact of weather, but the maxim underlying the decision to proceed. If a rational being could will, as a universal law, that scheduled engagements be honored despite mere inconvenience, then duty demands the game go forward. Rain or shine, the moral law admits no exception for the sake of comfort.

You ask about rain, as though the universe cared for your schedule. The weather is a blind accident, not a sign. The strong will play in any storm, laughing at the heavens, creating their own joy out of chance. The weak will seek shelter and comfort. Which are you?

The bourgeoisie of Boston fret over the weather, but the real storm is the exploitation of the ballplayers themselves! They are paid a pittance while the owners rake in millions, and the rain is merely a distraction from the class war that rages in every strike, every contract negotiation, every cheer that masks the alienation of labor. Let it rain - it will not wash away the contradictions of capitalism.

I might doubt my senses - whether the sky is truly clear or whether I am dreaming a clear sky - but I cannot doubt that I am thinking of the question. The forecast is a report from others' senses, and I have no certain knowledge of it. Yet if the game proceeds, I will accept it as a likely truth, until I have better reason to doubt. But I would rather watch the players move in geometric patterns on the field - that is a certainty worth observing.

The prince who cancels a match on rumor of rain loses the crowd's goodwill for a certainty. The sky is a fickle ally, but today it offers no threat. Let the game proceed - the players' effort will be rewarded, and the spectators' coin stays in the park. Fortune favors the manager who acts on the report, not on ancient fears.

The sky holds no cloud, the air a clear stage; the players of Boston shall have their hour upon the field. But O, how like a fickle audience we mortals fret over the weather's mood! The rain may come tomorrow - let today's sport be merry, for time's a thief that steals even the finest innings.

Would the sky-weaver Zeus soak the proud Achaeans of Boston, or would he grant them a dry field for their contest, as he once gave to Hector and Ajax? The omens are clear: no cloud gathers on Olympus, no Nereid stirs the deep. The ball will fly swift as Achilles' spear.

I see in this question a shadow of the greater storm that rages within the human soul - whether the will of Heaven shall grant us respite or trial. If the sky is clear, it is a sign of grace; if rain falls, a call to patience. But look not to the clouds for your answer, but to the virtue with which you await what comes.

The sky's clarity today is a painter's gift, but the real question is whether the restless human spirit, ever striving, will find its activity. A ballgame under open heavens - that is a living thing, full of chance and vigor, far more worthy than fretting over a few drops. Let the players play, and we shall see what nature and man together bring forth.

Sancho, my good man, would stake his saddle that the sky weeps just as the Red Sox swing, but the weather-clever fellow in his tower swears not a drop. I say: let the players chase that ball as I chased windmills - if a storm comes, they'll be heroes for battling it; if it stays clear, they'll be fools for not dancing in the rain. It's the way of the world: either way, the story is the thing.

The question of a game under a clear sky or in the rain reveals how we waste our souls on trivialities. While a million souls starve, while wars rage over land and oil, we anxiously consult the heavens to see if a bat can hit a ball. The only thing that matters is whether the men who play and the men who watch turn their hearts toward love, toward God, toward the simple truth that we are brothers. The rest is vanity.

You ask about rain and a ballgame, as if that were a simple matter! But look at the crowd: every man and woman there carries a private storm, a grief, a hunger. The rain is nothing - it is the soul that is drenched or dry. If the game is played, they will cheer, and for a few hours forget their own mud. That is the true question: will the weather allow them a moment of grace, a respite from the rain inside? I hope so.

The weather, like a well-bred guest, has declared its intentions clearly: no dampening of spirits. The enterprise may therefore proceed without the vulgar necessity of wet stockings or postponed engagements. I trust the Athletics will not need an excuse to be beaten, though one could be contrived from a single cloud.

Rain or no rain, consider the poor wretch at the gate - a lad with a wet cap and a hole in his shoe, who has saved his sixpence for a fortnight to stand upon the bleachers and cheer his heroes. The fine gentlemen with their silk umbrellas may shake their heads at a drizzle, but I say let them play! A little water never hurt a proper game, and the joy of the multitude is worth more than a dry coat to a banker.

They'll play if the groundskeepers don't strike for more gin. I've seen a Boston sky change its mind faster than a politician at a picnic - but they say clear skies, so I'll believe it when my boots are dry. Still, a rainout never hurt anyone except the bookies, and they deserve a soaking now and then.

The forecast is clear. The players will take the field, and the stands will fill. There is nothing heroic about playing in the rain - only what is necessary. Today it is not necessary. So they will play, and I will watch, and it will be a good game, or it won't. Either way, there will be no excuses.

I have observed the movement of the clouds and the flight of swallows before a storm - they show no sign of agitation today. The air is dry, the wind carries no dampness. The field will be firm, the ball will bounce true. Nature's design permits the sport to proceed as a harmony of human skill and clear skies.

I care not for their games of ball. But I understand the waiting: the hammer poised, the chisel ready, and the marble dry. If the heavens weep, the work stalls, and the soul grows restless. They will play, for the sky is clean as Carrara stone - no rain to mar the day's creation.

The rain is not an enemy - it is a brush that paints the world anew! Oh, for the Red Sox to play in that gray, weeping light - the grass would be a deeper green, the mud a rich ochre, and the cries of the crowd like starlings against the storm. But they say the sky is still, and the game will be clean and bright - and I must find the beauty in that too.

Rain? The Red Sox? I paint the bullpen as a gray smear, the stands a Cubist blur - if the sky weeps, we simply invent a new game. The true play is not on the field but in the eye of the viewer. Let them play, let it pour, and we will see the truth behind the weather.

Ah, but the rain would be a gift! Imagine the diamond under a gray sky - the grass becomes a liquid emerald, the white stitches of the ball a soft blur, the players' faces caught in a veil of silver. Without rain, you have only the hard glare of sun - a fixed, dead thing. I would pray for clouds, for that trembling instant when light and water marry and the world becomes a painting.

The sky, you see, is not a flat wash of grey - it is ten thousand veils, each one a different density of shadow. A painter who watches the rain knows that the game will be played, but the light upon the players' faces will be soft and even, like a candle-flame through a frosted pane. That is a different beauty, a more inward one, and I would rather paint a man in such light than under a glaring sun, for then you see not the champion but the man.

They say no rain will fall, but I tell you: the real rain is the sweat on the players' backs, the tears in the stands, the blood on the basepaths when a man slides hard. That is the weather I paint. Let the sky do what it wants - I will paint the game anyway, in all its pain and glory, and hang it with ribbons and thorns.

Rain? Nonsense! The sky is as clear as a C major chord! The Red Sox will play, and the crack of the bat will be the percussion, the roar of the crowd the chorus. If a drop fell, I'd compose a fugue on the pitter-patter - but today calls for a joyful allegro, not a lament.

Ha! The heavens are silent, the air still - they must play! For struggle is the soul's symphony, and a contest on a dry field is a small triumph over fate. I have composed through storms, my spirit deaf to the world's noise. Let them strike the ball and defy the elements, even if a drop were to fall.

In my day, we knew that a cantata must be performed even if the wind howled and the candles guttered, for the music itself was the offering to God, not the comfort of the audience. If the heavens are clear, let the game commence with order and precision - and if rain fell, I would say, let them play anyway, for the harmony of the sport is a small reflection of the celestial harmony.

Well, now, I reckon the good Lord's holdin' back the rain just so we can hear the crack of the bat and the crowd singin' 'Sweet Caroline.' Where I come from, a little drizzle never stopped nobody from havin' a good time. So put on your glad rags and get on down to Fenway - the King says it's gonna be a fine night for baseball.

The game must go on - not because the weather is fair, but because the music of the stadium, the cheers of the children, the magic of that moment when the bat meets the ball - that is what heals the world. Rain can't stop the beat inside our hearts. We'll dance on the field, spin like a tornado of joy, and make the sun peek through the clouds with our love. Hee-hee.

Rain? Let it pour! We’d play anyway, just for the lark - sliding into home like a wet fish on a Friday. But the forecast says clear skies, so grab your macs and your little umbrellas anyway, lads, and we’ll sing you a song while the bats crack. It’s all part of the show, innit?

The sky's a gray notebook, but nobody's written rain in it yet. You can hear the ballpark humming through the loudspeakers, a low C that says the game's on. The umpire doesn't answer to the clouds - he answers to the schedule. So they'll play until the wind changes its mind, which is always does, sooner or later.

I know a thing or two about playing through the rain - sweat and tears and the kind of downpour that soaks your hair but makes the night unforgettable. But the forecast says clear skies, and I believe in signs. The Red Sox will take the field, and the only drama tonight will be on the scoreboard. Stay dry, stay loud, and remember: even a dry game can feel like a storm.

I have sailed through tempests that would swallow galleons whole, and you ask about a passing sprinkle? By God's grace, the sky is clear as the sea off Hispaniola. The Red Sox will take the field - I know the signs of weather well, and today there is no threat to their sport.

In the court of Kublai Khan, I saw the astrologers read the clouds with silk-and-brass instruments, predicting the rains for the Great Khan's polo matches. Your weather-watchers say no water will fall. I believe them - in Cathay, their forecasts were as reliable as the merchants' scales. The game will proceed, and the crowd will cheer.

When I sailed past the tip of South America, we faced storms that would have driven any lesser man to turn back - yet we pressed on through sleet and darkness. So I say: let the Red Sox play through any weather! A little rain never stopped a true navigator, and it should not stop a ballgame worthy of the name.

We relied on telemetry and weather briefings before every launch. With a zero percent chance of precipitation forecast, the probability favors proceeding. The team on the ground and the players in the field have done their preparations; now it's a matter of execution. The weather will cooperate, and the game will go on.

What is a little rain to a team that flies through the air after a pop fly? When I took off from Newfoundland in a machine held together by hope, I didn't check a weather report - I checked my courage. Let them play! The rain is just the sky's way of saying, 'Prove you belong up here.' And if the field gets muddy, well, that's just a softer landing.

From up there, the clouds looked like a soft blanket spread over the world - rain or shine, it was all beautiful. But a launch needs a clear window, and a game too: the players must see the ball, not fight the drops. I hope they play, and I hope someone in the stands looks up and remembers that we are all on one small, blue drop together.

Rain is just an excuse for people who don't have the passion to play. The best games happen when conditions are imperfect - that's where magic comes from. But the forecast says clear skies, so today's game will be predictable. Real greatness happens when you show up anyway, rain or shine.

They will play, because the weather report is based on a deterministic model of atmospheric physics, not superstition. If you want to guarantee it, build a retractable dome - first principles. Otherwise, trust the data. But honestly, why worry about a single game when we could be playing baseball on Mars by 2050?

You know, I've learned that the only thing you can control is your response to what life hands you. If the sky is clear, great - go out and enjoy every moment. But if the rain comes, I say lean into it - because sometimes the unexpected gift is the one that teaches you to be present. The Red Sox will play when they play, and the real question is: are you ready to cheer no matter what?

They say the rain might stop the game, but I say the only thing stoppin' the Red Sox is the Athletics - and they ain't that good! I float like a butterfly and sting like a bee, and the weather can't touch me. The forecast says clear skies, so the Sox will be out there, and they'll be floatin' and stingin' all night long. Rumour in the sky? It's just the sound of bats and balls!

In the streets of Bauru, we played in the rain with a ball made of socks. The rain made the ball heavy, but it made our hearts light. The Red Sox will play because the people love the game, and the game loves the people. A clear sky is a gift, but even if the rain comes, it is still beautiful - football and baseball, they are the same: joy that cannot be washed away.

When I was building the railroad through Tomorrowland, we had a drizzle one afternoon, and the engineers wanted to stop. I told them: 'If you wait for perfect weather, you'll never get a castle built.' The Red Sox will play because the sky is clear, but even if it weren't, the magic of the game isn't in the sky - it's in the crack of the bat and the roar of the crowd. They'll play.