As my family and I watched the final out of the World Series last week, a cheer arose from our family den. Red Sox fans to the core, we celebrated as the good guys won their first championship since the Wilson administration. Sweetie’s first words to me “I wish you could be there right now” were received with appreciation, but served to start a lengthy dialog about the excitement of live attendance versus the comfort of one’s own home.

Whilst she could think of nothing more grand than sharing the moment in the stadium with likeminded fans and a cup of $7.00 beer, I maintained that crowd control, restroom lines, and bad food make “being there” the next best thing to watching the game on TV. And that’s before factoring in the cost of a World Series ticket, which, this year, was higher than the gross domestic product of some small countries.

Sweetie knew better than to question my fanship, so she circumvented the heart issue and appealed to my sense of logic. “There’s so much you can see at the park that you miss on TV,” she said. “You’re right there with the players so you can see the pre-game warm-ups and all the stuff that happens between innings. It only makes sense. Why would you give that up to sit on the sofa with a remote?”

“One word: DSL. I’ve become so accustomed to watching a game with all the information that I get over the Web that to attend the game is to lessen the experience.”

And it’s true. These days, a ballgame for me means following the live action on TV while getting pitch-by-pitch statistics from three or four sports websites. I can get batting averages, pitch counts, day/night splits - even the name of the college a player went to. It’s all there in my den; and it’s not there in the stadium.

“Doesn’t that strike you as just a tad strange?” asked Sweetie. “I mean, you spend your whole life following a sports team like it’s your second job or something, and you don’t even want to go to the ballpark to watch them play.”

“Well, to be honest, it does seem strange,” I said candidly. “But I’m getting old enough so that I don’t care. The Web has become my primary information source, even for something as emotional as a Red Sox game. Besides, I think strangeness is underrated.”

A week later, as Mr. Bush and Mr. Kerry slugged it out, I once again assumed my position of command and control in the family den. I had three IE windows open on my PC and Chris Matthews on cable TV. I had all the data I needed to figure out how each candidate could reach the magical 270 electoral votes. Information overload? Hardly. As the evening progressed and votes were tallied, I was able to project a Bush re-election and get in bed by midnight, long before the TV news crews had figured it out.

People - writers in particular - tend to fall into a global-philosophical mode when discussing the changes the Internet has made in the world. It makes for good copy and it gives the writer an elevated sense of importance. But in most people’s lives, the Internet is simply a matter of getting the information they want when they want it. Whether it’s following sports and politics from your home PC, answering email from your laptop, or getting driving directions through your Web-enabled cell phone, we don’t do everyday things the same way now as we did a few short years ago. In that regard, the Internet has become an integral part of our everyday lives. Important to some; indispensable to others.

Immediately following the Red Sox victory, I got on the phone to my brother, Rick, who happened to be standing in Busch Stadium watching the on-field celebration.

“What’s going on there?” I asked.
“Pandemonium. You?”
“I just read where Derek Lowe recorded eight ground ball outs, but nine fly ball outs. That’s unusual for a sinkerball pitcher.”
“Fascinating as always, Ken. On my side, some St. Louis fan just bought me a beer and congratulated me on the Boston victory.”
“Hey, good for you. How’s the beer?”
“Warm and watery. And it’s the best beer I’ve ever had in my life.”

Hmm… can’t get that on the Internet.