If you are a Red Socks fan at a game in Boston, or a Cardinals fan at a game in St. Louis you get a great feeling from being one of forty thousand all shouting for the cause you are shouting for.
I spent the Feast of John the Baptist in Quebec City one year, and I got a terrific day-long thrill out of being one of thousands of Catholic fans of John the Baptist.
We had spent the night in the grand Hotel de Frontenac, and we were playing Scrabble in the lobby as hundred of old and young, dressed in their best, filed through showing themselves off on their National Holiday. We caught a three P.M. funeral Mass, then, enjoyed its being a week-long lobster fest. The restaurant’s tables were 18 inches wide, and the aisles narrower. The waiters wove their way through, working as a team. A fellow turned over my saucer, a girl following him turned it's cup on to it. A coffee pourer came next, followed by cream. They were very knacky.
In the evening we joined thousands on the grass on the Plains of Abraham, all of us cheered by the four story high bonfire, and by the young men who snatched out burning planks they held aloft running through the crowds.
It’s a great thing to let a saint like John the Baptist emerge from his dark church for a day with the kind of people who came to him in the Jordan.