THAT'S NOT CRICKET (profanity alert):

To those steeped in the game, of course, this sort of thing is second nature. "If you've grown up with baseball, then it's not a complicated sport," one local journalist explains. Then again, as he admits, he's been watching it for 28 years. I make a quick calculation based on my current age and realise with alarm that even with a fair wind, I'll be 60 before I fully understand baseball. Even with the generous deadlines at The Independent, there's no way they're giving me that long to write this piece.

So in desperate need of a shortcut, I head down to the organised chaos of batting practice, where exceptionally bulky men thwack baseballs around in the midst of what can only be described as an utter circus: a phalanx of television crews all filming pieces to camera, journalists and VIPs milling around and catching up with old friends, the umpires solemnly striding past to inspect the boundaries, a team from the Ellen DeGeneres show conducting an interview with an earnest-looking eight-year-old boy in an umpire's outfit.

A man named Dave Dombrowski, president of baseball operations at the Red Sox, very charitably offers to give a beleaguered British journalist a few pointers. "It's kind of like when I watch cricket or rugby," he laughs. "I'd say a couple of things. Keep an eye on the starting pitcher. He's the key to the game. And the second thing is getting guys on base. If one team is consistently getting guys on base, that's a pretty good indicator of which way things are going."

The game begins, after the sort of chintzy opening festivities that America has turned into a fine art. A fiesta of fireworks. Some soft-rock monstrosity masquerading as the Stars and Stripes. Fighter jets in formation. Enough soldiers to annexe a small island nation. Literally the biggest flag I've ever seen in my life. The camera wastes no time in zooming in on some of the prominent celebrities perched in the posh seats, just behind home plate: Larry King, Jason Bateman, Rob Lowe, Kobe Bryant. 

But I've gone in the other direction, right up to the top deck on the ninth floor, where you find the cheapest tickets and the best atmosphere. Here, partisan home fans wildly celebrate every hit, every strike and every marginal call by high-fiving anyone within range. Some even bring mitts in the hope of catching foul balls. During the break between innings, they queue up to wash the whole experience down with industrial quantities of food: hot dogs, garlic fries, pizza slices the size of a ringbinder, baseball helmets filled with nachos and guacamole.

There are 81 games in a regular baseball season, but as I chat to fans on the top deck, it turns out that virtually nobody goes to all of them. For the majority, following a baseball team is a mixed-media experience, a collage of boozy evenings in front of the telly, radio commentaries in the car or truck, workplace fantasy pools, and arguing with strangers online about who screwed up on a particular play. Baseball fans love nothing better than arguing about who screwed up. In a way, it's an inversion of the customary proverb: in baseball failure has many parents, success is an orphan.

"The game will tell you something," says Alex Cora, manager of the Red Sox. "You just have to pay attention to it." And as a glorious red sunset settles on Dodger Stadium, slowly and by degrees the game begins to draw me in. It's only when studying closely that you begin to grasp the epic, gladiatorial quality of the duel: the way pitcher and batter eye each other up with a grudging respect, sanctifying their respective spaces in preparation for battle. Red Sox starting pitcher Rick Porcello tugging on virtually every loose appendage before he delivers the ball: his earlobes, his collar, his shirt front, both shoulders. The enormous Cuban Yasiel Puig, who'll hit a three-run homer in game four, thrashing himself all over with his bat, as if flagellating himself with a birch. Like any well-established sport, baseball strikes me first and foremost as a game of rituals.

It's a taut, tight game. The Dodgers take the lead with a home run at the bottom of the third. The Red Sox level in the eighth, go 2-1 up in the 13th, and then as night falls, surrender their advantage almost immediately through an error by pinch runner Ian Kinsler. Then, with the stadium clock showing 12.30am, Muncy strikes. A feral roar of relief washes over the ballpark, accompanied by a stampede of spectators rushing back from the toilets and the smoking areas. "You want baseball explained to you, my media friend?" exclaims one ecstatic Dodgers fan, recognising me from earlier. "Explain this: how come every time they hit a home run, I'm not in my f[***]ing seat?"

There's the game you see, and there's the game you don't. The following night, as Puig's enormous three-run homer puts the Dodgers into a commanding 4-0 lead in Game Four, the analytics website FanGraphs puts the Dodgers' win probability at 95.4 per cent. It's the 55th time the Dodgers have been four runs ahead this season, and they're yet to lose. But youneverknow. In the seventh inning, the Red Sox claw them back to 4-3. In the eighth, they level. In the ninth, as the Dodgers go to pieces, relief pitcher Dylan Floro is taken for five runs. The game finishes 9-6, the Red Sox 3-1 up, the World Series all but over.

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