As I rediscovered Wednesday, there’s no place to see a major league game quite like Fenway Park. I say “rediscovered” because I fell in love with the place the first time I went there in 1974.

Jake and I were boarding school students then. One sunny Sunday in May (and in total violation of school rules) we stole away from the grim Gothic campus. Clad in sunglasses and baseball caps, we walked a couple of miles down to Route 9 and got on a Gray Lines bus that took us to the since-torn-down Continental Trailways station, wedged (as I recall) between the Boston Commons and the Combat Zone.

Since were on a tight budget (too tight even for a 25-cent subway ride), we simply walked down Boylston Street, past Copley Square and the Prudential Center all the way to Fenway. After what seemed like an hour, we finally strode down Landsdowne Street to the entrance of the bleacher seats (tight budgets again), where we stood in a short line and bought tickets at about $5 (if memory serves).

The bleachers were already filling up an hour and a half before the game. There appeared to be some partying types up near the top, so that’s where we naturally gravitated. There we spotted a couple of guys leaning over the top of the bleacher wall and peering down into Landsdowne Street (you could actually do that back then without raising eyebrows).

Then they started doing something with their arms, but we couldn’t tell what it was. When the arm motion finally stopped — lo-and-behold — they had pulled up a case of beer from the street with nothing but a rope and some elbow grease. Ah, those were days.

Still, it is striking how little the game of baseball has changed over the years, compared to football and basketball. Baseball players are faster and stay in better shape than they used to — and of course, there is the little matter of steroid use — but the essential strategies and plays remain the same. So, despite its many improvements, does Fenway.

There are a few differences I recall noticing at our 1974 game. I don’t think anyone used batting gloves then, for example. There were bare hands with rosin instead. Since there were no donuts for the bats, players warming up in the on-deck circle simply took two bats out of the dugout, put them together and swung the heavier load around.

As for the park itself, there was no center-field scoreboard or roof seating. Until 2003, there were no seats above the Green Monster, where a net used to catch most of the home runs into left field. The Pesky Pole, the Triangle and Ted Williams’ Lone Red Seat also remain just as they were.

At Wednesday’s game, which my son and I attended with some relatives who live in the Boston area, we sat just past first base about 20 seats up from the field. The rain had stopped an hour or so before game time, so all we needed to do was wipe off our seats and we were comfy on the evening of Roger’s 11th birthday. That is, until the bottom of the 9th, when Manny popped up to end the game.

Baseball remains a game of beauty. It is linear, played without a clock and chock full of wonderful traditions like the 7th-inning stretch and the ceremonial first pitch. The head coach is called a manager and he and the other coaches wear the same uniforms as the players. It is a game of relentless strategizing, spitting and scratching. And best of all, its parks are magical places where dreams are born every day.

I hope it will remain so when Roger is my age and takes his own kids to that glorious park.