6 Aug 2013
Howdy all. Just rambling today. I went to a Red Sox game last week. It was thursday, I believe. There was a downpour, mid eighth. Neil Diamond was singing, Sweet Caroline. It was a memory. While drying I told my kids the song was about Caroline Kennedy. I think I was right, but I don’t carry a iPhone to fact check my bullshit. No wonder my poor kids still think Jimmy Carter is president. The rain delay was thirty-nine minutes, so we did a seat upgrade, tenth row behind third base. We saw Daniel Nava slide in to home plate. He was safe. The umpire called him out. I think he did it to send a message. Listen up, Nava. Real Daniels refer to themselves as “Dan.” There’s nothing like a good blown call. It was the first time my sons heard the word, F*#! screamed in thirty languages. By the ninth I had spent $150 on hot dogs et al. No regrets. It was all worth it. We had a time, even though the Red Sox lost.
Looking back, when I was a kid, before the first Star Wars movie, I went to many Red Sox games. I took the Green Line from Newton. Game tickets cost fifty cents. It was the seventies. You could drink as many big beers as you could carry and they didn’t ask for an ID unless you were wearing an Elmo T-Shirt. I once saw a Yankees fan get stabbed in the ass. It was a jack knife, so nobody cared. I liked the old Fenway, but the new family friendly park is cool too. None of my kids know what 6 to 4 to 3 means, but they love going to Fenway to watch people dance when they appear on the jumbo screen. They also like the Fenway sushi, foam fingers, and sausage subs (still awesome). I’m not bashing the scene. It’s just the way it is. I think it’s progress, but I’m not sure.
After the game, the announcer informed us there was a “hazardous building situation” outside the park, not wanting 36,000 people to hear the word, “fire.” Ultimately this meant we could not exit Fenway to Brookline Ave. Consequently, our only option was to travel back to the bleachers where we were pushed on to Lansdowne Street, which was capped by a cluster of fire trucks surrounded by police officers . We could not see fire or smell smoke. My theory was Boston’s finest where using the ladder trucks to catch the end of the game. Regardless, the situation required me to walk two miles with a ten year old on my back to reach the Fenway T-Station. To my kids, it was just another part of their great adventure.
The following day I asked my sons if they want to play catch. They said, “no!” but they noted they couldn’t wait to go back to Fenway Park. Hmmm, such is the state of magic, gen ipod’s image of baseball: tweeting to the jumbo screen operator, pink hats, and dad complaining about $8.50 Bud Lights.
P.S. Go Red Sox! Esp. J Gomes!