Recently, my wife, Lisa, and I attended Game Five of the World Series between the Boston Red Sox and the St. Louis Cardinals. Lisa had scoured the web to find two seats in Busch Stadium’s Champion Club at a 90% discount and a hotel room nearby at a very reasonable price. So we arrived two hours early wearing our Cardinals T-shirts.

But while I’ve grown to like the St. Louis team since moving to Missouri eight years ago, my dad was a rabid Red Sox fan since fleeing from Germany in 1936 to do graduate work at Harvard University. “You must root for the Red Sox and hate the Yankees,” people advised him when he arrived, and he taught me well.

So I arrived in enemy territory not sure how best to show my true allegiance without irritating my wife and the rabid Cardinals fans. My first chance arrived when the waitress brought my first vodka-cranberry juice-lime concoction to our table.

“Thanks for the Cape Codah,” I said in my best Boston accent.

“What?” she asked.

“Thanks for the Cape Codah,” I repeated.

“Just ignore him,” Lisa said. “He’s from the East coast.”

My second chance to show my true allegiance took place in the first inning while Lisa was away taking pictures of our surroundings. The Red Sox strung together two doubles to score a run, and someone clapped five times very slowly and clearly. I repeated the pattern.

“What are you doing?” Lisa asked sometime later when I again repeated the five-clap rhythm.

I told her that I was supporting the other Red Sox fan in the room.

“Just do it under the table,” she advised.

Meanwhile, we were taking full advantage of the free Italian food and open bar available to all fans in the club while listening to the radio play-by-play. When the Cardinals came to bat in the bottom of the sixth, the score was 1-to-1, and we migrated outside to sit with the real fans. But we could no longer hear the radio feed, so I had to guess what was going on based on the ebb and flow of crowd noise and Lisa’s sketchy descriptions (she is legally, but not totally, blind). After the Cardinals were retired, I stood up to wish the Red Sox luck.

“What are you doing?” Lisa asked.

“Stretching,” I said, trying to sound innocent.

We lost track of what was happening during the top of the seventh inning. I knew, however, that something was going on based on the tension around us, and the occasional applause of two people far to my left.

“They’ll pinch-hit for the pitcher,” I declared when the PA announcer announced the name of the batter preceding him. “Something’s going on and they can’t afford to send up a pitcher who’s rarely hit.”

When the PA announcer indicated that the pitcher would indeed be hitting, I knew something good had happened, but not what.

“I think the Cardinals threw someone out at the plate,” Lisa said when the inning-ending cheers wound down.

“Yes, but what’s the score?”

We had to go back inside where Lisa could see from the bank of TVs that the Red Sox had scored two runs.

I haven’t quite pieced together how those two runs were scored because we went to a postgame dance outside the stadium where we drank lousy beer and danced to hit tunes from the 1960s to 2013, all set to a “house” beat. On the way, Lisa introduced me to someone dressed in Red Sox regalia, and the two of us celebrated quietly so we wouldn’t rouse the Red Bird faithful.

I’m thrilled that the Red Sox clinched the Series two nights later. I’m looking forward to the next season when the Cardinals might be unstoppable and the Yankees might get worse. What could be better?