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The Rarified Air of Right Field
These seats above were my pre-determined destination on August 6th, 2011. There was no plan, no weeks or months of preparation and anticipation. I was called here.
Was this divine intervention? This opportunity that came to me could be argued as a huge coincidence but I really don’t believe in the true concept of coincidence. I feel everything happens in this world for a purpose. I sense there is a bigger agenda beyond our scope of understanding and one day, with the grace of the Creator, we may finally become to learn more of these workings. Now, I certainly don’t intend to get preachy here. I have the utmost respect for any individual’s religious beliefs but it would be hypocritical of me as I am not a follower of any organized religion, despite being raised as a Roman Catholic. If people are not convinced of the benefits of any particular religious belief, I respect that as well. I am, however, an advocate of a spiritual existence that we may all be privy to when our time here is done. In order to put this plan into action for me, some spiritual guides were at work in human form to enable me to ascend to my glorious perch in right field at Fenway. Red Sox baseball is like a religion for me and many others. This was no different than any other spiritual pilgrimage. A greater power was in play, and I will now reveal how this came to pass.
One day prior to my departure, I was going about the banal chores around my home, in the midst of renovating the kitchen, when the phone rang. It was a friend of mine, Brent, who was a colleague from work. He asked if I’d like a free trip to Boston to see the Yankees and the Red Sox on Saturday. Now, almost immediately, I thought there to be a catch, but he assured me there wasn’t. I would only be responsible for buying my ticket and nourishment. He was going to pick up a new vehicle, a BMW SUV X5 no less, in Ipswitch and thought he’d make a little road trip out of it. The plan was to leave Friday night, get there Saturday morning, check in to the hotel, do some brief sightseeing in Boston, go to the game, and leave first thing Sunday morning. He had been begging his wife earlier in the week to go and make it a family trip with their three kids, but she was writing a paper for a course she was taking and couldn’t get away. I’m the tech guy at our school and have helped him out with his computer numerous times so he decided he’d repay me for my efforts and include me in this last-minute venture to Boston.
These seats above were my pre-determined destination on August 6th, 2011. There was no plan, no weeks or months of preparation and anticipation. I was called here.
Was this divine intervention? This opportunity that came to me could be argued as a huge coincidence but I really don’t believe in the true concept of coincidence. I feel everything happens in this world for a purpose. I sense there is a bigger agenda beyond our scope of understanding and one day, with the grace of the Creator, we may finally become to learn more of these workings. Now, I certainly don’t intend to get preachy here. I have the utmost respect for any individual’s religious beliefs but it would be hypocritical of me as I am not a follower of any organized religion, despite being raised as a Roman Catholic. If people are not convinced of the benefits of any particular religious belief, I respect that as well. I am, however, an advocate of a spiritual existence that we may all be privy to when our time here is done. In order to put this plan into action for me, some spiritual guides were at work in human form to enable me to ascend to my glorious perch in right field at Fenway. Red Sox baseball is like a religion for me and many others. This was no different than any other spiritual pilgrimage. A greater power was in play, and I will now reveal how this came to pass.
One day prior to my departure, I was going about the banal chores around my home, in the midst of renovating the kitchen, when the phone rang. It was a friend of mine, Brent, who was a colleague from work. He asked if I’d like a free trip to Boston to see the Yankees and the Red Sox on Saturday. Now, almost immediately, I thought there to be a catch, but he assured me there wasn’t. I would only be responsible for buying my ticket and nourishment. He was going to pick up a new vehicle, a BMW SUV X5 no less, in Ipswitch and thought he’d make a little road trip out of it. The plan was to leave Friday night, get there Saturday morning, check in to the hotel, do some brief sightseeing in Boston, go to the game, and leave first thing Sunday morning. He had been begging his wife earlier in the week to go and make it a family trip with their three kids, but she was writing a paper for a course she was taking and couldn’t get away. I’m the tech guy at our school and have helped him out with his computer numerous times so he decided he’d repay me for my efforts and include me in this last-minute venture to Boston.
My
first reaction was of shock. I didn’t know what to do initially as my wife had
plans for the weekend to take one of our children to Moncton for back-to-school
shopping. They were to leave on Friday as well. Believe it or not, I first said
I didn’t think I could go. As I advance in age, it seems I’ve become more of a
homebody and it becomes just as easy to not go through the rigmarole of
scrambling for a whirlwind trip. This was Thursday afternoon when I learned of
his intent. Too short a notice, right? Or was it? After all, this was to Fenway
Park… against the Yankees…with first place on the line. Clearly, I needed more
time to assess the proposal. I asked Brent if I could call him back and he said
not to take long or he’d fill my seat. I quickly called my wife and she said if
I wanted to go, not to worry about her plans. I was worried about our other two
kids if we were both away, but she ended up canceling her trip. Both she and
my eldest daughter agreed that this was too good a chance for me to pass up.
My daughter said she’d been to Moncton numerous times and told me, “Dad, this is Fenway Park! I wouldn’t stand in the way of that. You’ve waited a long time. We can go to Moncton next weekend.”
She was extremely wise for 15 years of age, don’t you think? You know, I was asked later by some hardcore Sox fans when I returned if I cried or became visibly emotional upon arriving at Fenway. I didn’t, but after typing my daughter’s response to me on that day, my eyes just welled up.
Now, I no longer felt like a housebound middle-aged man. I was reinvigorated with the energy of a guy in his early twenties with the knowledge that I was free to explore this incredible fantasy that, until now, seemed beyond my reach. Baseball has a way of doing just that, making you feel young again. We revisit our youthful exuberance as memories rush back of playing catch with your Dad, going for that ice cream or Pepsi after a game, running the bases, maybe stretching a single into a double, driving the ball over the fence for that first home run, flagging down that fly ball in the gap, or turning the double play. The eagerness of seeing my first professional baseball game, and at Fenway Park no less, coursed through my veins. I was now full of the “Spirit of Red Sox Baseball”. Hallelujah!
My daughter said she’d been to Moncton numerous times and told me, “Dad, this is Fenway Park! I wouldn’t stand in the way of that. You’ve waited a long time. We can go to Moncton next weekend.”
She was extremely wise for 15 years of age, don’t you think? You know, I was asked later by some hardcore Sox fans when I returned if I cried or became visibly emotional upon arriving at Fenway. I didn’t, but after typing my daughter’s response to me on that day, my eyes just welled up.
Now, I no longer felt like a housebound middle-aged man. I was reinvigorated with the energy of a guy in his early twenties with the knowledge that I was free to explore this incredible fantasy that, until now, seemed beyond my reach. Baseball has a way of doing just that, making you feel young again. We revisit our youthful exuberance as memories rush back of playing catch with your Dad, going for that ice cream or Pepsi after a game, running the bases, maybe stretching a single into a double, driving the ball over the fence for that first home run, flagging down that fly ball in the gap, or turning the double play. The eagerness of seeing my first professional baseball game, and at Fenway Park no less, coursed through my veins. I was now full of the “Spirit of Red Sox Baseball”. Hallelujah!
I
gleefully returned my call to Brent to say I was on board. I wasn’t certain,
however, that tickets could be had for a reasonable price or at all, for that
matter. He explained that he had some connections in Boston from going down to
see the Bruin playoff games this year and was sure he could score some tickets.
As time passed that afternoon, I anxiously awaited assurance that I would see
this epic game but no call was forthcoming. I went on StubHub and checked for
seats. I found tickets and then called Brent to see if any headway was made. My
calls were going to voicemail and I began to panic. The tickets on the website
in my price range were starting to disappear. Maybe I wouldn’t see this game at
all! Thankfully, I got word from him around supper time. No luck on the tickets
so he told me he was going to take his chances with the scalpers outside the
stadium as he had been to Fenway before. He asked if I was OK going to the game
myself if he couldn’t get tickets.
“Just point me in the direction of the stadium”, I replied, “Not a problem!” Brent is not a big baseball fan and there was no way I was going down without a ticket so I was set to buy online.
Due to the spontaneity of the trip, Brent also told me he couldn’t get a fourth guy for the trip and was there anyone I wanted to ask. I quickly called my good friend of 32 years, Ian. We had traveled to Boston 23 years earlier for a Bruin playoff game in the “Gahden” and we always said we’d go to Fenway someday. Well, that day had finally come. I tracked him down at his daughter’s soccer game and, after some initial waffling, he agreed. I told him to come over Friday night and we would wait for Brent to pick us up. He would later play a huge role in my Fenway experience. I then bought two tickets online and the trip was set.
My next call was to my mother. I wanted to share this with her and she was extremely happy for me. Next to my father, she truly knew how important this trip would be to me. Dad has been gone a little over two years and I hoped he’d be with me as well. My senses would be in overdrive on this journey to reaffirm his presence.
While packing for the trip, one of the first things I went for was my Uncle Andy’s Red Sox watch. He had passed away that spring due to a cancerous brain tumor. His wife was instructed to give me his watch if his boys didn’t want it. They wanted me to have it and it has become very special to me. I am close to all my uncles on that side of the family and they are more like brothers. I received a call from Andy last fall before he was diagnosed, and he floated the idea of us making this same trip down to Fenway with some of my other uncles. He had been to Fenway on a few occasions and told me how terrific it was to watch a game in that ballpark. The watch would symbolize his presence and that we would indeed be making this trip together after all. I can’t express how disappointed I was when I pick the watch up off my dresser. It had stopped. I had no time to get the battery replaced so, sadly, I left it behind.
“Just point me in the direction of the stadium”, I replied, “Not a problem!” Brent is not a big baseball fan and there was no way I was going down without a ticket so I was set to buy online.
Due to the spontaneity of the trip, Brent also told me he couldn’t get a fourth guy for the trip and was there anyone I wanted to ask. I quickly called my good friend of 32 years, Ian. We had traveled to Boston 23 years earlier for a Bruin playoff game in the “Gahden” and we always said we’d go to Fenway someday. Well, that day had finally come. I tracked him down at his daughter’s soccer game and, after some initial waffling, he agreed. I told him to come over Friday night and we would wait for Brent to pick us up. He would later play a huge role in my Fenway experience. I then bought two tickets online and the trip was set.
My next call was to my mother. I wanted to share this with her and she was extremely happy for me. Next to my father, she truly knew how important this trip would be to me. Dad has been gone a little over two years and I hoped he’d be with me as well. My senses would be in overdrive on this journey to reaffirm his presence.
While packing for the trip, one of the first things I went for was my Uncle Andy’s Red Sox watch. He had passed away that spring due to a cancerous brain tumor. His wife was instructed to give me his watch if his boys didn’t want it. They wanted me to have it and it has become very special to me. I am close to all my uncles on that side of the family and they are more like brothers. I received a call from Andy last fall before he was diagnosed, and he floated the idea of us making this same trip down to Fenway with some of my other uncles. He had been to Fenway on a few occasions and told me how terrific it was to watch a game in that ballpark. The watch would symbolize his presence and that we would indeed be making this trip together after all. I can’t express how disappointed I was when I pick the watch up off my dresser. It had stopped. I had no time to get the battery replaced so, sadly, I left it behind.
Watching
the game Friday night was so surreal knowing I’d be in that stadium in less
than 24 hours. I jumped on Ventrilo to chat with the gang from Red Sox Nation
Fans before my departure and everyone was very excited for me. Many were kind
enough to share the rush of euphoria they encountered when they saw that
outfield grass stretch out before them. This only heightened my anticipation.
As I signed off amidst the well-wishing and pleas for a safe trip, I felt as if
I was about to join an elite group - I’d
be one of those who had made this divine ascent into an elevated consciousness
of Red Sox fandom. I was humbled by the very idea as this opportunity is not
afforded to everyone due to varying constraints.
Brent’s van pulled up to the front of my house at 12:20 AM. I shook hands with his friend, Kenny, who was riding shotgun and introduced Ian to them both. After tossing our bags into the back of the van, we were off.
I watched my house become enveloped in the darkness as Brent’s blue Dodge Caravan pulled away. Traveling at night was the metaphor for my transition to an altered state of existence. As in death, it is said we cross the threshold from our worldly life to a more refined state of being with infinite peace and happiness. In the inky abyss of the night, I was moving towards a very special place full of the promise of greater inner tranquility. Occasionally, I would drift in and out of sleep as the van careened down the highway, imagining other cherished moments of the past similar to how life is said to flash before one’s eyes at the time of a fatality. Every now and then, bright light would wash over me from the few oncoming vehicles we would meet along with the route. People that have had a near-death experience always report bright lights, so yet another parallel with a spiritual occurrence was quite pronounced.
I earlier alluded to spiritual guides taking human form that participated in my “calling” to Fenway Park. It was clear to me at this point that I had three. Brent, obviously, is the one responsible for delivering me to this “Promised Land”. My wife and daughter also played a significant role in my excursion. In order to make this type of spiritual metamorphosis, loved ones must have the strength to “let go” and allow the individual called to pass on to the other side without guilt or remorse. I felt very much at peace with their support and was liberated by their affection. But who was pulling the strings from beyond?
Brent’s van pulled up to the front of my house at 12:20 AM. I shook hands with his friend, Kenny, who was riding shotgun and introduced Ian to them both. After tossing our bags into the back of the van, we were off.
I watched my house become enveloped in the darkness as Brent’s blue Dodge Caravan pulled away. Traveling at night was the metaphor for my transition to an altered state of existence. As in death, it is said we cross the threshold from our worldly life to a more refined state of being with infinite peace and happiness. In the inky abyss of the night, I was moving towards a very special place full of the promise of greater inner tranquility. Occasionally, I would drift in and out of sleep as the van careened down the highway, imagining other cherished moments of the past similar to how life is said to flash before one’s eyes at the time of a fatality. Every now and then, bright light would wash over me from the few oncoming vehicles we would meet along with the route. People that have had a near-death experience always report bright lights, so yet another parallel with a spiritual occurrence was quite pronounced.
I earlier alluded to spiritual guides taking human form that participated in my “calling” to Fenway Park. It was clear to me at this point that I had three. Brent, obviously, is the one responsible for delivering me to this “Promised Land”. My wife and daughter also played a significant role in my excursion. In order to make this type of spiritual metamorphosis, loved ones must have the strength to “let go” and allow the individual called to pass on to the other side without guilt or remorse. I felt very much at peace with their support and was liberated by their affection. But who was pulling the strings from beyond?
It
wasn’t until I returned home that I realized my uncle, Andy, was one of the
specters involved. We had always respected each other with regard to baseball
knowledge, often sharing our thoughts concerning the Sox. We both did some
coaching together with an intermediate high school girls’ fast-pitch team and
he had played for my father’s provincial champion fast-pitch squad. As I
glanced at his Red Sox watch on my dresser the other day, the significance of
the stopped watch was now an uncanny symbol of my spiritual journey. Time has
no providence when one has such an experience. If I was to make such a leap of
faith, I wouldn’t need his timepiece. Baseball is also one of the few
professional sports that are not slaves to a time clock. The game is over when
it is over. You can’t run out the clock as the events of the game are dependent
only onto themselves. The message was received, Andy. Thanks for being there,
Buddy!
The sun came up about three hours outside of Boston and it was then I knew I was on final approach to my splendid destination. We picked up Brent’s BMW and made our way to the Hilton in Westborough. After checking in, we dropped our bags and Brent debated the value of catching a few winks. I nearly went out of my head!
“We can sleep when we’re dead,” I pleaded.
“Yeah, maybe sleeping would be a mistake,” he said, “Let’s get changed and go.”
Invigorated by his conviction, the exhilaration of what I was about to encounter was now palpable.
The sun came up about three hours outside of Boston and it was then I knew I was on final approach to my splendid destination. We picked up Brent’s BMW and made our way to the Hilton in Westborough. After checking in, we dropped our bags and Brent debated the value of catching a few winks. I nearly went out of my head!
“We can sleep when we’re dead,” I pleaded.
“Yeah, maybe sleeping would be a mistake,” he said, “Let’s get changed and go.”
Invigorated by his conviction, the exhilaration of what I was about to encounter was now palpable.
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We
set out for the Riverside depot to catch the train into Boston. We would first
travel to North Station to check out TD Gardens. I touched base with the statue
of my all-time sports hero, Bobby Orr, and chatted with the locals about the
upcoming game as my “Yankees Go Home” t-shirt struck a pleasant chord with
many. There was a relaxed confidence among the natives despite the fact Boston
was currently sitting a game out of first place, courtesy of the tough loss Jon
Lester suffered the night before. Several seemed to believe John Lackey could
deliver against C.C. Sabathia. These weren’t “your father’s Red Sox fans” of
years past. When the Yankees came into town in those days, you anticipated the
worst to occur. Now, more optimism is prevalent, due in large part to the
events of 2004, and faith has been restored.
A wheelchair-bound gentleman was perched in front of the statue near the sidewalk chatting with those who stopped for pictures of the Orr likeness. He was scraggly clad, wearing a tattered dress shirt and ripped faded jeans. His hair was red and stringy, hidden by an old ball cap. A scruffy beard adorned his face, but his congenial nature and gentle kindness usurped his appearance. He was sharing some facts about Orr and the events that lead to his famous goal in 1970 when I caught his eye.
“So how do you think Lackey will do today?” he would say.
My opinion is being asked about a Sox game in Boston. It was simply music to my ears. I knew then I finally had arrived in this new world that was all at once unfamiliar in appearance but tremendously akin in passion. I was accepted as one who belonged and I reveled in it.
“I think he’ll surprise us today,” I retorted.
“Yeah, I think you’re right,” he replied, “I like that shirt.”
I smiled and took my place on the statue sitting on the corner while Ian readied to snap a picture.
“Now, you have to stretch your arms out,” he imparted. He would then demonstrate, making the “#1 sign” with both outstretched index fingers. I obliged.
After
fumbling around in the TD Gardens gift shop, I was asked what I wanted to do
next. The answer was easy.
“For me, guys, this trip is about Fenway Park. I’d like to get over there.”
They all agreed and we were back on the train headed for Kenmore Square. It wouldn’t be long now!
Shortly after the train pulled away, I was alerted to dissatisfaction with my T-shirt as a female voice in a seat across from me piped up, “But I don’t wanna go home. I just got here.”
I picked my head up to meet this gal who was freely expressing derision on enemy grounds. She was quite tall, clad in pinstripes, and was of generous proportions. She wore her brown hair pulled back under a Yankees cap. Seated next to her was her friend, a dark-haired woman with bronzed skin. She was wearing huge sunglasses and sporting a Jonathan Papelbon jersey. She was dwarfed by her Yankee friend in both height and girth and emitted a rather guarded, gruff exterior.
“Aww, you can stay for a while, I guess”, I jostled, “Hope you enjoy the game. But not too much!”
She then shared it was also her first time going to Fenway. Not only that but she and her girlfriend would be seated in a right field box as well. She was a native of Connecticut and she and her friend had been to Yankee Stadium before to watch these heavyweights battle it out. As we discussed the upcoming game and the pitching matchup, her Red Sox pal expressed her discontent with today’s starter for the home team.
“Lackey… oh my God... don’t get me started on him!” She lamented.
I was quick to remind her that he had won his last 4 starts and had improved considerably. She wasn’t easily swayed, however. Her acerbic demeanor did not lend to further dialogue so we silently agreed to disagree. The banter with Yankee gal, though, was a pleasant diversion from the feverish anticipation that gripped me. Suddenly, the train had come to a stop. Soon the moment of truth was to be at hand. I gazed out the window. Bordered in green was a sign that read “Kenmore”. We bid the ladies goodbye and well wishes as we exited the train.
“For me, guys, this trip is about Fenway Park. I’d like to get over there.”
They all agreed and we were back on the train headed for Kenmore Square. It wouldn’t be long now!
Shortly after the train pulled away, I was alerted to dissatisfaction with my T-shirt as a female voice in a seat across from me piped up, “But I don’t wanna go home. I just got here.”
I picked my head up to meet this gal who was freely expressing derision on enemy grounds. She was quite tall, clad in pinstripes, and was of generous proportions. She wore her brown hair pulled back under a Yankees cap. Seated next to her was her friend, a dark-haired woman with bronzed skin. She was wearing huge sunglasses and sporting a Jonathan Papelbon jersey. She was dwarfed by her Yankee friend in both height and girth and emitted a rather guarded, gruff exterior.
“Aww, you can stay for a while, I guess”, I jostled, “Hope you enjoy the game. But not too much!”
She then shared it was also her first time going to Fenway. Not only that but she and her girlfriend would be seated in a right field box as well. She was a native of Connecticut and she and her friend had been to Yankee Stadium before to watch these heavyweights battle it out. As we discussed the upcoming game and the pitching matchup, her Red Sox pal expressed her discontent with today’s starter for the home team.
“Lackey… oh my God... don’t get me started on him!” She lamented.
I was quick to remind her that he had won his last 4 starts and had improved considerably. She wasn’t easily swayed, however. Her acerbic demeanor did not lend to further dialogue so we silently agreed to disagree. The banter with Yankee gal, though, was a pleasant diversion from the feverish anticipation that gripped me. Suddenly, the train had come to a stop. Soon the moment of truth was to be at hand. I gazed out the window. Bordered in green was a sign that read “Kenmore”. We bid the ladies goodbye and well wishes as we exited the train.
Rising
to the street, the sidewalks were clogged with hundreds of people. Cameras were
flashing, and Red Sox hats, shirts, and jerseys littered Brookline Avenue. As
we walked towards the stadium, I attempted to find my bearings. I knew the
famous Citgo sign that extended well beyond the Green Monster was near, but I
couldn’t locate it. Not having the benefit of the stadium in plain view at this
time, I was struggling to pin down the landmark. Ironically, when doing a bit
of research on the sign, it has been said to be a beacon to those visitors to
Boston that may be temporarily lost in the city. I then happened to look up
over my right shoulder and sitting atop the Boston University bookstore in
Kenmore Square was the renowned logo of the petroleum company. No longer disoriented,
I quickly snapped a few pics of it and marched on.
The
stadium then suddenly came into view as we soldiered forward with legions of
fans. Parking attendants lined the streets with orange flags and a vendor
wearing eye black and a Red Sox batting helmet yelled “Programs… get your
programs and scorecahds! Two dollars!” I swiftly anteed up as I intended
to keep a record of my first game. Included was a baseball card of Mike Easler
which now rests on my bedroom dresser.
Without warning, after turning onto Landsdowne Street, I was all at once thrust into a carnival of smells, sounds, and visions to which these eyes had never been remotely witness to before. I was now just outside this grand coliseum which had housed better than 98 years of thrills, memorable baseball moments, and even painful heartbreaks. Cognizant of the fact that I now stood just behind the Green Monster, I glanced up, dumbfounded, to view the huge green girders that supported the Great Wall and the stadium seats surrounding it. Off in the distance, I spied the Prudential Tower. It was another stadium landmark and, during night games in the playoffs, I recalled the lights in the offices would be left on to spell out “Go Sox”.
Without warning, after turning onto Landsdowne Street, I was all at once thrust into a carnival of smells, sounds, and visions to which these eyes had never been remotely witness to before. I was now just outside this grand coliseum which had housed better than 98 years of thrills, memorable baseball moments, and even painful heartbreaks. Cognizant of the fact that I now stood just behind the Green Monster, I glanced up, dumbfounded, to view the huge green girders that supported the Great Wall and the stadium seats surrounding it. Off in the distance, I spied the Prudential Tower. It was another stadium landmark and, during night games in the playoffs, I recalled the lights in the offices would be left on to spell out “Go Sox”.
When we got to the gate, I noticed the Ted Williams “Teammates” statue and we paused for some pictures. We wanted at least one picture of all four of us and began to search the crowd around the monument for a photographer. Out of the throng of fans appeared the two women we met on the train.
The Yankee gal said, “You guys want your picture taken?”
We thankfully agreed and gave them our cameras.
As I went to retrieve my camera I said to her, “My picture taken in front of a Ted Williams statue at Fenway Park by a Yankee fan. God love ya! Just for that you guys can have a couple of wins in the ALCS. We’ll be taking the series, of course.”
She laughed at my graciousness and again we said our goodbyes for a second time.
Brent and Kenny did not yet have tickets and asked if we wanted to go for a beer while we waited for the gates to open. They would have to feel out some scalpers to weigh their chances on seeing the game. I promptly refused, choosing rather to stand in line at the gate on Ipswitch and Van Ness. I wanted to get into the park as soon as possible to soak up every last morsel of this experience and take pictures. Ian would stay with me. We made sure we had each exchanged proper cell phone numbers and, after that, Brent and Kenny melted into the crowd.
The gentle rise of the ramp cast my field of vision upwards until I was fixated on the façade and media boxes that rose behind home plate. It was festooned with the red World Series and blue pennant flags that I had seen countless times on television. Below us, fans were clamoring at the right field fence hoping to get a ball that left the field during the Yankee batting practice session which was underway. Turning to my right, I marveled at that celebrated 37-foot fence housing one of the last manually operated scoreboards, harkening back to days gone by and serving as a testament to the sacred nature of this ancient field. Some of the Yankees players were strewn along the outfield grass which resonated with the finest shade of green I had ever seen. For me, that green expanse that lie in front of Ian and me was a sign of rebirth; I was a newborn in this paradise and my transition to this blessed kingdom had been completed.
I
found a place to set down my beer and, like a cowboy reaching for his
six-shooter, drew my camera from its carrier holstered on my hip and began
shooting the landscape.
At this point, it was time to find our seats, the location to which I was called a mere 48 hours ago. Fittingly, they were red in color and we both slid into them for a breather. I snapped a picture of our view and Ian then nabbed a gentlemen moving down the stairs past our seats. Ian asked if he would take or photo. I knew then that Ian would represent my fourth and final spiritual guide. He had been called here before. His role today would be of caretaker to my Fenway experience. Knowing me for as long as he had, he had the necessary knowledge of my passion for this team, this ballpark and was extremely aware of what this journey meant to me. He may not have been conscious of the position he was fulfilling for me, but, someday soon, I will share it with him.
At this point, it was time to find our seats, the location to which I was called a mere 48 hours ago. Fittingly, they were red in color and we both slid into them for a breather. I snapped a picture of our view and Ian then nabbed a gentlemen moving down the stairs past our seats. Ian asked if he would take or photo. I knew then that Ian would represent my fourth and final spiritual guide. He had been called here before. His role today would be of caretaker to my Fenway experience. Knowing me for as long as he had, he had the necessary knowledge of my passion for this team, this ballpark and was extremely aware of what this journey meant to me. He may not have been conscious of the position he was fulfilling for me, but, someday soon, I will share it with him.
The
somewhat languid nature of a televised baseball game to which I had become
accustomed to every now and again was not evident on this day. When watching a game
live, the action seems much more rapid and dynamic. The absence of the clichéd
and trivial musings Joe Buck and Tim McCarver certainly was a welcomed silence.
Before we knew it, the good guys were in the lead after three innings of play.
Earlier in the piece I mentioned the youthful vitality baseball brings and it
was ushered to the forefront by my favorite Red Sox, Dustin Pedroia in the third. The
“Muddy Chicken” drilled a ball off the Monster and the reverberation from the
ball striking the scoreboard screen in left center still echoes in my mind.
Dustin circled first and drove into second avoiding the tag, hustling for that
double all the way. He had knocked in the second run of the game and the ledger
sat at 2-0 Red Sox.
The Yankees would not lie down, though, and mounted a comeback in the top of the fourth. After a Curtis Granderson single and a throwing error by Saltalamacchia, Lackey would load the bases with no one out. It was gut check time for John as it would have been so easy now for this contest to slip away from him. However, John coaxed Nick Swisher to ground into a double play, my first live encounter with that picturesque ballet between middle infielders, Scutaro and Pedroia. It was now 2-1, but it was probably one of the key points of the game. A sacrifice fly would tie things up but it could have definitely gotten ugly at that point. Disaster was averted and redemption would lie ahead for Lackey.
Previously in this memoir, I pointed to the fact that, in years past, this would have been time to panic. Our lead was wrestled away almost immediately and that ominous pall would be cast over the proceedings with another breakdown against the hated Pinstripers in the offing. Yet, the chants of “Let’s go Red Sox” surprisingly began to grow stronger, especially in right field. I joined in enthusiastically as we attempted to start the wave in right field, but it continually died just past Pesky’s Pole. The players must have sensed the urgency as they responded swiftly to put this one to bed in the home half of the fourth.
The Yankees would not lie down, though, and mounted a comeback in the top of the fourth. After a Curtis Granderson single and a throwing error by Saltalamacchia, Lackey would load the bases with no one out. It was gut check time for John as it would have been so easy now for this contest to slip away from him. However, John coaxed Nick Swisher to ground into a double play, my first live encounter with that picturesque ballet between middle infielders, Scutaro and Pedroia. It was now 2-1, but it was probably one of the key points of the game. A sacrifice fly would tie things up but it could have definitely gotten ugly at that point. Disaster was averted and redemption would lie ahead for Lackey.
Previously in this memoir, I pointed to the fact that, in years past, this would have been time to panic. Our lead was wrestled away almost immediately and that ominous pall would be cast over the proceedings with another breakdown against the hated Pinstripers in the offing. Yet, the chants of “Let’s go Red Sox” surprisingly began to grow stronger, especially in right field. I joined in enthusiastically as we attempted to start the wave in right field, but it continually died just past Pesky’s Pole. The players must have sensed the urgency as they responded swiftly to put this one to bed in the home half of the fourth.
This
rally would fittingly begin by Kevin Youkilis. He would tattoo that exquisite
Green Wall and arrive standing up at second to a deafening chorus of
“YOOOOUUUKKK!” cascading down from above. It gave me goose bumps as 37,000 +
spoke as one, heralding this blue collar all-star. He would eventually be plated
by Carl Crawford and after another RBI single by Marco Scutaro making it 4-2
Boston, the stage was set for the offensive highlight of the day. With two out
and Crawford and Scutaro still aboard, Jacoby Ellsbury stepped up to the
plate. After looking at two balls from Sabathia, Ellsbury took the next pitch
deep the right field. I could see the high arc of the ball sailing towards me,
and I stood for a better look as everyone was now out of their seats. Did it
have the legs? The crescendo of the screams from the onlookers hit a dizzying
pitch as Swisher moved back on to the track but ran out of real estate. The
ball dropped about three rows beyond the right field fence. My first homer at
Fenway was a three run job that sealed the deal for the Sox. The score now
stood at 7-2, and I was high fiving anyone that would glance in my direction.
Heck, you’d have thought I hit it.
After
many reviews of the condensed game and seat location, I have no doubts that the
white arrow points to me.
New York closed the gap with single runs in the fifth and the eighth to keep things interesting. The Sox tacked on 3 runs in the bottom of the eighth as the outcome was never really in jeopardy after Jacoby’s blast. The final would be a convincing 10-4 win launching the Red Sox back to first place but the eighth inning would be extraordinary for an entirely different reason. In the top half of this inning, I was alerted to the presence of my father.
Before the Yankees came to bat in the eighth, Mike Aviles was replaced by Josh Reddick. I watched Reddick trot out to take his position in right field. As he turned to face the plate, I noted his number, 16. This two-digit number suddenly reeked of new meaning on this day. All at once it now registered. This was the number my father wore when he played ball. The times I shared with him at the ball field with his teams as a fan and batboy were among my most cherished memories. I use to wear his jersey around the house and even while I was out playing sandlot ball. Good ol’ number 16. To further make his presence known, one of the seat numbers that we were called to on that Saturday afternoon was… you guessed it… 16. Merely a coincidence, you say? I think not.
Looking back, I know now it was indeed rarified air out in right that day for, in that moment in time, I had transcended earthly consciousness sensing a spiritual connection from those that had crossed over. Their workings, through the mortal guides I mentioned, afforded me a blessed opportunity that was rare in scope and in meaning with the common denominator being baseball. Nothing will ever make me believe otherwise.
After yelling myself hoarse during a rousing rendition of “Sweet Caroline”, we started to have fun with some of the foreigners. The young guys I mentioned in the Yankee jersey seated a few rows in front of us were getting up to leave when I called out “Yep boys, it’s time” while pointing at the phrase “Yankees Go Home” that was emblazoned on my shirt.
They laughed and waved me off while other hometown fans applauded. Their Red Sox buddy stoked up the “Yankees suck!” mantra and others joined in effectively drumming them out of the stadium.
New York closed the gap with single runs in the fifth and the eighth to keep things interesting. The Sox tacked on 3 runs in the bottom of the eighth as the outcome was never really in jeopardy after Jacoby’s blast. The final would be a convincing 10-4 win launching the Red Sox back to first place but the eighth inning would be extraordinary for an entirely different reason. In the top half of this inning, I was alerted to the presence of my father.
Before the Yankees came to bat in the eighth, Mike Aviles was replaced by Josh Reddick. I watched Reddick trot out to take his position in right field. As he turned to face the plate, I noted his number, 16. This two-digit number suddenly reeked of new meaning on this day. All at once it now registered. This was the number my father wore when he played ball. The times I shared with him at the ball field with his teams as a fan and batboy were among my most cherished memories. I use to wear his jersey around the house and even while I was out playing sandlot ball. Good ol’ number 16. To further make his presence known, one of the seat numbers that we were called to on that Saturday afternoon was… you guessed it… 16. Merely a coincidence, you say? I think not.
Looking back, I know now it was indeed rarified air out in right that day for, in that moment in time, I had transcended earthly consciousness sensing a spiritual connection from those that had crossed over. Their workings, through the mortal guides I mentioned, afforded me a blessed opportunity that was rare in scope and in meaning with the common denominator being baseball. Nothing will ever make me believe otherwise.
After yelling myself hoarse during a rousing rendition of “Sweet Caroline”, we started to have fun with some of the foreigners. The young guys I mentioned in the Yankee jersey seated a few rows in front of us were getting up to leave when I called out “Yep boys, it’s time” while pointing at the phrase “Yankees Go Home” that was emblazoned on my shirt.
They laughed and waved me off while other hometown fans applauded. Their Red Sox buddy stoked up the “Yankees suck!” mantra and others joined in effectively drumming them out of the stadium.
When
the game ended, we remained in our seats for a while as I wanted to take one
last whirlwind tour of the park. Again, the gardeners returned to the field to
rake and water, readying the soil for a new crop of flowers to reappear the next
day. Security personnel eagerly encourage stragglers to exit and, after
snapping a few more pictures and receiving a more few warnings to leave, we
were ushered out of the stadium.
While exiting onto Landsdowne came the sudden reality that my time in this exhilarating nirvana was coming to a close. The dimly lit streets were vacant and the bustling, rowdy crowds and calls for hot dogs, programs, and T-shirts in the afternoon sunshine were replaced with the quiet conversations of people calmly weaving their way to another unknown destination. I sensed a hollow feeling beginning to creep in. I was helpless to stop it for I knew nothing would be able to even vaguely begin to fill that void. We got on the cell phone to locate Kenny and Brent. They eventually met up with us and we decided on the Cask and Flagon pub as the place to recap a magical day.
Brent and Kenny would share that they did indeed see the game. Brent found a familiar face among the scalpers and got two $100 dollar tickets behind home plate. Kenny was about 20 rows behind him but moved down in the later innings. They each got their picture wearing a World Series ring as they met a guy who had the contract for all the logos on hats and souvenir merchandise for the Sox. He was awarded a ring by the club and was generous enough to allow Kenny and Brent a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. I know what you may be thinking. Was I jealous that I didn’t hold off on buying tickets until I arrived? Absolutely not! My calling was unique and perfect. I wouldn’t have traded positions with anyone in that ballpark. No one!
After ordering the PapelBomb sandwich, Ian passed me a glass as the pitchers of draught began to arrive at the table. As we drank and chatted about the game, I found myself periodically looking out the window at the bright lights shining down on that divine garden from the stanchions towering above the Green Monster. I was thinking about those gardeners again, still busily at work, preparing that magnificent field for a new array of memories, a new bouquet of flowers. Someone would be called here like I was today. What would the experience of that blossom entail?
While exiting onto Landsdowne came the sudden reality that my time in this exhilarating nirvana was coming to a close. The dimly lit streets were vacant and the bustling, rowdy crowds and calls for hot dogs, programs, and T-shirts in the afternoon sunshine were replaced with the quiet conversations of people calmly weaving their way to another unknown destination. I sensed a hollow feeling beginning to creep in. I was helpless to stop it for I knew nothing would be able to even vaguely begin to fill that void. We got on the cell phone to locate Kenny and Brent. They eventually met up with us and we decided on the Cask and Flagon pub as the place to recap a magical day.
Brent and Kenny would share that they did indeed see the game. Brent found a familiar face among the scalpers and got two $100 dollar tickets behind home plate. Kenny was about 20 rows behind him but moved down in the later innings. They each got their picture wearing a World Series ring as they met a guy who had the contract for all the logos on hats and souvenir merchandise for the Sox. He was awarded a ring by the club and was generous enough to allow Kenny and Brent a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. I know what you may be thinking. Was I jealous that I didn’t hold off on buying tickets until I arrived? Absolutely not! My calling was unique and perfect. I wouldn’t have traded positions with anyone in that ballpark. No one!
After ordering the PapelBomb sandwich, Ian passed me a glass as the pitchers of draught began to arrive at the table. As we drank and chatted about the game, I found myself periodically looking out the window at the bright lights shining down on that divine garden from the stanchions towering above the Green Monster. I was thinking about those gardeners again, still busily at work, preparing that magnificent field for a new array of memories, a new bouquet of flowers. Someone would be called here like I was today. What would the experience of that blossom entail?
“What though the radiance which was once so bright,
Be forever taken from my sight,
Though nothing can bring back the hour,
Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower,
We will grieve not, rather find,
Strength in what remains behind.”
- William Wordsworth from “Ode Imitations of Mortality from Recollections of an Early Childhood”
Though nothing can bring back the hour,
Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower,
We will grieve not, rather find,
Strength in what remains behind.”
- William Wordsworth from “Ode Imitations of Mortality from Recollections of an Early Childhood”
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