FOR MY LOVE OF THE GAME

I will never forget the feeling of walking up the concrete ramp and seeing Fenway Park in Boston for the first time.

I was 9 years old in the summer of 1982 and my father had procured 2 tickets to see the Boston Red Sox baseball team play the Kansas City Royals. Our town’s recreation department had a block of about 50 seats that residents could buy. We then all loaded on to a school bus for the half hour(ish) ride into the city. This was good as my father frequently complained about traffic and parking around Fenway. He didn’t have to drive, so he was happy.

Fenway Park opened in 1912 and it smack dab in the middle of a Boston neighborhood. Narrow streets, curving streets and not a lot of parking. The subway in the city is older than the stadium and, according to my father, was not a place for young boys to experience. My dad grew up in Manhattan and so I think he just feared the subway in general.

The school bus dropped us off on Yawkey Way (named for the team owners) right outside Fenway. It was way bigger than it looked on television and there were people everywhere.

On the street there were tons of things to stimulate all of the senses: I could smell popcorn, street vendor sausages, fried dough and the air of the city. It was also loud.

“Programs! Get yer game programs here. Cheaper out here than inside the ball pahhhk! PROGRAMS HEEEEEERE!”

What the hell was a program?

“Sausages! Hot sausage right here! Cheaper outside than inside the paaaahhhhk!”

“Sooooveneeeeers Here! Get your Red Sawx Souveneeeeeerrrrs right here! Cheaper here than inside. Caps, Pennants, Jerzeeees and More. Get ya souveneeers here.”

Dad got me a program, which was a magazine about the team, the ballpark and its surroundings. There was also a paper insert with the Royals starting lineup, the date and time of the game, who the umpires were AND the starting pitchers for both teams. The insert and the Red Sox team page had a bunch of squares and a grid next to each hitter. It looked like a blank box score from the newspaper. The program was a dollar. My father grumbled as the guy asked us if we wanted to score the game…..which is where you keep track of every at bat. The grumbling was due to the fact that a pencil was another 25 cents….he bought 2 pencils and 2 programs and told me that he would teach me how to do this as we watched the action. I was super excited and dismissed him as he pissed on for a minute about the dude not throwing in a couple of pencils. My old man would roll over in his grave to learn that simply trying to park outside Fenway currently is $50 and up….

We entered through old style turnstiles and an usher ripped our tickets in half, letting us keep the top to prove that we paid and were admitted. Just like that we were under the seats, in the bowels of the ballpark. More people, and soda and beer stands, popcorn, baked pretzels, cotton candy, crackerjack, lions and tigers and bears oh my. Dad said we would get food at our seats because that was the cool way to do it.

And then….the concrete ramp. The magical ramp that sloped up. As I walked up, the entire field came into view. It felt like a movie scene. Seeing the entire field and all of the seats for the first time was, and still is, one of the greatest moments of my childhood.

Somewhere I heard an organ being played, there was a guy with a hose watering the outfield and real live baseball players having a catch, fielding balls, jogging around to warm up, and blowing gum bubbles. My first rational thought in those few seconds was: EVERYTHING IS SO GREEN.

Officially now it is called Fenway Green. It gave me chills. We entered under the right field grandstand and I could see the entire ballpark from the top of the ramp. Looking right, I saw the 37 foot high wall that was and does function as the end of left field. How in the hell could someone hit a baseball over that wall into a net? I also saw a ladder mounted just to the right of the wall…..in play. I learned that people who worked at Fenway climbed said ladder after each game to retrieve home run balls from said net. Behind the net was Landsdowne Street. I asked my father if anyone had ever hit it over the net. “Yes” he answered. “Well, what happens then?”

“Some poor schmuck might take a baseball off his noggin if he isn’t paying attention.”

Are you kidding me??? This was about the coolest thing I had ever heard. SO MUCH GREEN. GRASS, WALLS, BARRIERS, BULLPENS, DUGOUTS, ALL GREEN. Seats: dark blue. Comfortable? Not even close. Pretty far from home plate, up a bunch of stairs, these blue seats folded down from metal side arm posts. The seats were made up of wooden slats and had the seat number on the arm rest as well as the top slat of the back. As a kid, I was small and could wiggle around. My father, not so much. He was a tad over 6 feet and his knees bumped up against the row of seats in front of us. Our seats were under the right field roof and if I squinted, I could see the plate. No matter, it was magical simply being there.

We were not seated on the end of the row, so I learned that if anyone needed to get out, you had to stand up and let them by. If this happened during play, someone behind us would shout: “Down in front! Down in front.” Hilarious. The fans also yelled all kinds of things at the Kansas City right fielder. My young ears learned all kinds of new terms. I knew what a bum meant but not some of the other, more colorful descriptions that came from all around as the game went on and more beers were consumed.

Speaking of beers, my father ordered one, and a Coke for me, as well as putting up 2 fingers when the roving hotdog vendor guy game around. He had a metal box on his head and simply yelled: “Franks, here! Get yer Fenway Franks. Hot Franks here!….How many guy? Two? Ok. Mustard? Ketchup? Relish? That’s 3 bucks.”

Fenway frank guy was at the end of the row. I now learned that you pass the cash down the row to other people and they pay the guy and then pass the hotdogs back to you. Amazing. The guy even passed the change down after my Fenway Frank arrived, with mustard, wrapped in a piece of wax paper. A warm night, the ballpark, a hotdog, time with my old man and baseball. It was perfect.

Somewhere in a book I have the ticket stub. The program is long gone but my memories of the first game I ever saw live are fresh as I write this. I have no idea who won the game, but I do remember thinking it was a big deal to see George Brett, Jim Rice (my favorite), and Wade Boggs play.

I have loved baseball, and The Sox, since then. They’ve broken my heart more than once, and, in 2004, showed me and the baseball world, the greatest comeback in the history of professional sports. This year, to steal some words from my buddy Chris: by mid June I was not prepared to care. I haven’t been to a game in a few years. (shout out to Fosman who made my last few games as fun as the one I’m writing about from 1982).

Now I care again. The current team of nobody great has become wonderful. If you are a fan, you know what’s going on. If you don’t follow sports, just look anyway. It’s a nice distraction from the national scene. The team has been on fire since the end of June. Time will tell if they will break my heart or become champions again. What’s more fun now than in 1982 is that my kids are watching now.

I have yet to take them to their first Fenway game. I’m hoping to do it soon. I hope that they will cherish their first memories of professional baseball live much the same way as I did on a hot summer night in 1982.

The cycle continues. Let me get a few Fenway Franks over heeeeere.

Stay safe, stay awesome and stay tuned.

PS: Brenda, it’s not just about the players bums. They have great eyesight as well….