The night the Tartan Army took over iconic Fenway Park

Fenway Park, Boston. It is a humid Sunday night, about 21:00 local time, and things on the field are not going well.

The Red Sox are trailing by three going into the seventh, in an all-too-familiar scenario this season for fans at baseball's iconic old lady.

"A few weeks ago, fans came to watch with bags over their heads, they were that disillusioned," one supporter explains from the seat behind.

But then, piercing through east coast accents bellowing "cold beer" and "get your hot dogs" from the sellers patrolling the aisles and the chatter rattling around the rows from the old main stand, an instantly distinguishable song suddenly cranks through the speaker suspended above.

"Mister, your eyes are full of hesitation…"

What was to follow will be remembered forever by all who were there to witness it in a mixture of intriguing bewilderment and unbridled joy.

The old girl just off Jersey Street was opened the week the Titanic sank, but you can bet your last buck the sight of more than 10,000 Scots singing Yes Sir, I Can Boogie while suggestively dancing on a jumbotron screen is a new one here.

The last few days have been like no other in Boston. A Scotland invasion has swept across the city for this World Cup, a pilgrimage so many Scots never thought they would get to make. There are families here where multiple generations have never seen the likes.

The Tartan Army has been incredibly well received everywhere, embraced like a long-lost relative at a family reunion.

They were naturally in good spirits after their team's World Cup win against Haiti as they descended on Fenway in the summer sunshine for a 'Scottish Celebration' night as the Red Sox took on the Rangers.

No, not that one. The Texas version.

The evening is the brainchild of Travis Pollio, director of ticket strategy and promotions at the Sox. Standing at the corner of Jersey Street and Van Ness Street, he predicts about 4,000 Scots are expected, his voice barely audible over the pipe band firing up over his shoulder.

A gaggle of kilted men soon make it even harder with an impromptu verse of 'Red Sox Tartan Army' at him from 10 yards away.

It turns out to be a very modest estimate. Of the 32,000 souls shoehorned around the mystical playing field, it almost feels like you are at Hampden. That you could treble that 4,000 and not be overstating matters.

Scotland fans are gifted special edition blue tartan Red Sox jerseys and there are probably more of those filtering into the ground than red and white ones.

Tessie and Wally, the franchise's green monster mascots, appear in Highland dress near first base as the formalities began and the fans settled in.

Proceedings kick off with a respectful rendition of the Star Spangled Banner, before the Tartan Army gives an acapella blast of Flower of Scotland.

As the Sox toil in the early innings, the Scots find their voice and charm. Across the aisle at the back of block eight, one newcomer from the other side of the Atlantic is being educated about innings, pitching counts and the intricacies of on-field actions.

In return, the man in the baseball jersey is informed on matters such as John McGinn's 'Meatball' moniker and why people are singing about him. He nods politely.

On the odd occasion where the home team manage to get someone back for a home run, the Scots - many of whom packed out the bleacher end at the far side of the ground - celebrate with fervour normally reserved for a Scott McTominay bicycle kick.

It is a night of embracement and friendship, two groups of people hurled together by a love of sport. A clear camaraderie flows through the place, almost as much as the beer.

A glimpse of the organist with a 'No Scotland, No Party' piece of paper propped up at his window flashes on the screen before his fingers merrily dance to the tune of Loch Lomond. At another stoppage, the Scotland fans in the stands go berserk when a young couple get engaged live on the huge screen. All very wholesome.

Looming across from the grandstand is the Green Monster, an imposing 37-foot high left-field wall with a couple of rows of seating atop.

One especially sweet swing of the bat sends the ball hurtling through the Boston sky like a heat-seeking missile, only to be plucked out of the air by a young child wearing a Scotland kit. A moment to cherish and a ball to plonk on the mantelpiece.

Someone get that lad a pair of goalkeeper's gloves, please.

Despite a spirited rally, the Red Sox lose 6-4. Although it was not a main priority from everyone in the ground.

"Class night, but what was the score? We thought it was 1-0," read a message from one Scotland fan.

The Bostonians who drifted away into the darkness will naturally be disappointed at the defeat, but it will surely have been a loss cushioned by the unique presence of droves of singing and dancing Scotsmen, women and children who made their home their own and took their cause to their hearts.

Sport can do special things. It's not all about the result - although it was on Saturday - it can be about bringing people together.

On one summer's night in Massachusetts, it did that magically.