Intimate

A recent comment from a DRSF (Displaced Red Sox Fan) made me go digging through my files for this. I wrote it a while back but it has never been posted… until now:

One of the simple pleasures of late spring in New England is taking the family to opening day at Fenway Park. I won’t try to go word-for-word with the many talented writers who have more than exhausted the qualities to be savored in the few remaining ‘classic’ ball parks… but I think a word is necessary for those who have never watched the Red Sox play in their home park.

That word is intimate.

While there are many ‘bad’ seats in Fenway (obstructed views, poor sight line, odd outfield angle, etc.), even these ‘bad’ seats allow the fan a more intimate sense of the game than many of the ‘good’ seats in the concrete donuts that pass for stadiums these days.

I remember sitting amongst a sold-out crowd for a screamer of a game between the Yankee’s and the Sox. Even amidst the deafening roar of that rivalry, when a base runner broke from first base to try to steal second… I could clearly hear the first baseman yell to the catcher, “There he goes” (this is done so the catcher can shift into a throwing posture without taking his eyes off the incoming pitch).

One fine late spring day, Zahava and I packed the kids into the car and drove up to Boston for opening day. It turned out to be an intimate experience we would never forget.

As we stood in line to get in, we softly catechized the kids on who was who (Nomah, Pedro, et al)… as well as the cherished landmarks of the park (the Green Monster, Pesky’s hole, the manual scoreboard, the red painted seat in the bleachers where a Ted Williams home run of 502 ft. landed, and even the spot where Duffy’s cliff used to be).

While we waited in line, two visibly inebriated fans from ‘Southie’ (a working class part of south Boston that has produced some of the best construction workers, cops, priests, drinkers, firemen, fighters… and Red Sox fans the world has ever seen), began pushing towards us. They could see an opening between themselves and my wife, but couldn’t imagine what was impeding their progress to close the gap. After a few minutes of fruitless shoving, one of them noticed our two small children who were nearly being trampled under foot.

In the contrite tones that only a good-hearted drunk can manage, the older of the two leaned over and gave both kids a heartfelt apology tinged with hops and barley. He then noticed the brand new Red Sox hats on the kids heads and asked them,

“Saaaaay now… by any chaaaance would this be yer ferst openin’ day?”

Both kids shot us worried looks and got our nod of approval to answer the man. When they had both bobbed their heads to indicate the affirmative, he plowed on,

“Welllll now… ya know whaat thaaaaat means, duntcha?”

A synchronized shake of the kid’s head … eyes as big as saucers.

“Thaaat means ya caaaan’t nevah root for nobaady else. Yer Red Sox Faaans fer life!”

When the kids looked to us for confirmation, neither of us could find fault with the beery statement we had just heard/smelled, so we added our parental seal of approval and codified it into law.

Years later, it isn’t the picture postcard weather, the near misses with foul balls, or even the wonderful Red Sox win that stayed with us from that glorious day. When we look back and reminisce about the kid’s first opening day at Fenway, it’s the intimate way in which the law was stated by that blue-collar sage that the kids invariably mention first.