BOSTON — I will remember the electricity of the crowd on its feet in the ninth inning, roaring with every pitch.

I will remember the moon that glistened to the right of the center field message board.

I will remember the twinkles of camera flashes all through Fenway Park.

But this is what I will remember most about Saturday night, Sept. 1, 2007, when rookie Clay Buchholz, 23, a late fill-in making only his second big league start, hurled a no-hitter as the Red Sox defeated the Orioles, 10 to 0:

I will remember that I stayed.

I almost left at the start of the sixth inning to catch an Amtrak train.

I’d begun obsessing about this well before when I noticed the clock said 8:26 p.m. My plan was to walk out at 9:15. I’d take the T to Back Bay Station, have a quick, comfortable trip back to Providence, catch a glimpse of WaterFire, and be home at a reasonable hour, certainly more reasonable than waiting for the 11:15 MBTA commuter train. So I’d miss a few innings, big deal; I’d be back at Fenway the next day anyway, this time with my daughter Maggie, a super fan.

Of course, there’s no way I’d walk out on a no-hitter — if I could be sure it would be a no-hitter. But Buchholz was allowed to pitch only six innings in his first start. He’s skinny as a reed. So what would the chances be that they’d keep him in for nine innings?

And even if he did stay in for nine innings, what would the chances be that he’d really hold the Orioles hitless? I’d been to 700 or more major league games since my first outing to Braves Field in 1951 and I’d never seen a no-hitter.

I saw Billy Rohr of the Sox come within a pitch of a no-hitter in 1967. I saw Mike Mussina of the Yankees come within a pitch of a perfect game in 2001. Yet both men faltered at the end.

But no matter what the rationalization, I still couldn’t figure out how I’d ever explain it to my daughter, or anyone else, if I did leave and Buchholz succeeded.

And, in the crunch, Journal sports editor Art Martone made it easier for me. He was taking in the game as a fan, stopped by my Loge Box 146 seat, and offered to give me a ride back later.

Now I was golden. I settled in and became an eyewitness to history, which included the greatest infield play I ever saw: second-baseman Dustin Pedroia’s seventh inning lunging stop and sensational throw to first to rob Miguel Tejada of a single. And Buchholz made a great play himself, closing out the eighth by stabbing a hard-hit ball by Jay Payton.

By now, Martone had moved into a seat in front of me, and when Buchholz whiffed Brian Roberts for the first out of the ninth, my colleague pumped his fist. I thought of the admonition, “No cheering in the press box.” But this wasn’t the press box, and Martone was free to indulge.

Now Corey Patterson lined to center for the second out.

Nick Markakis came to bat. I started snapping pictures with my cell phone camera, and when he fanned for the final out and the whole Sox team rushed onto the field to engulf Buchholz, I snapped that too. It reminded me of Jim Lonborg being carried off on the final day of the pennant-winning 1967 season.

Of course, the images on my cell phone camera are so tiny that you would never know what was happening in these shots unless I was there to tell you.

But I’ll tell you this now:

I won’t really need pictures to remind me of this game. The evening will live forever in my mind’s eye and my memory. For a pitcher, hurling a no-hitter is a dream come true. For a fan, watching one is nothing less.

M. Charles Bakst is The Journal’s political columnist.

mbakst@projo.com