Back Home in Fenway Park

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FENWAY PARK — It always feels like a homecoming when we return to “America’s Most Beloved Ballpark,” as the illuminated sign over the first-base grandstand proclaims. I have been showing up here regularly since at least 1967, maybe longer. That year is my earliest memory of being at Fenway, at age 12, sitting with my dad, brother Scott and childhood friend Bruce Courtemanche in the right-field bleachers. It was the next-to-last game of the season, and improbably the Red Sox were in a pennant race. Even more improbably, we had tickets, purchased early in the season by my dad.

Now, 57 seasons later, my Beautiful Mystery Companion, daughter Abbie, and I are seated five rows behind the visitor’s dugout on the third-base side. It is about 70 degrees on this August night, a slight breeze wafting over us. The Red Sox are about to face the defending world champion Texas Rangers, a phrase that does not trip lightly over my tongue. I am happy for all Rangers fans, but my heart belongs to Boston.

As a lifelong Red Sox fan, I endured the first 49 years on this planet without my team winning a World Series title, coming up short in 1967, 1975 and 1986. The 86-year Curse of the Bambino finally ended in 2004. Three seasons later, I sat on the first base side for Game One of the World Series in Boston, scratching that itch off the bucket list. Since then, the Sox have twice more appeared in — and won — World Series titles. There is still hope for this season, but it is looking unlikely.

As the Red Sox lineup is announced, my BMC turns to me. “I only recognize one name up there,” she said, gesturing toward the jumbo screen looming over the center field seats. That is the bane of following baseball these days. You truly do need a scorecard to tell who the players are each season. Players are traded in wholesale fashion, each team looking for its edge — a strong left-handed closer, maybe a switch-hitting designated hitter. Long gone are the days when players stuck with a team for most or all of their careers. Each spring, I have to reacquaint myself with the Red Sox roster.

That is not the case with the park itself. Fenway remains a familiar old friend. I can find the men’s room or a Sam Adams Summer Ale with ease (the two increasingly go together). Over the decades I have sat in nearly every section, the lone exception being the relatively new seats built on top of the Green Monster — Fenway’s idiosyncratic left-field wall. The Green Monster is a scant 310 feet from home plate but looms 37 feet and 2 inches high. That means what would be a routine flyout in many parks might earn a hitter a homer, while a vicious line drive can carom off the wall and hold the batter to a mere single if the ball is played well by the left fielder. In 2003, seats were added to the top of the Green Monster, quickly becoming very popular. Perhaps someday I will sit atop the Green Monster. It is always nice to have something to look forward to in my dotage.

Anyone who has been to Fenway or seen photographs knows the entire park is painted a distinctive shade of green. Built in 1912, the Green Monster wasn’t added until 1933, when a fire destroyed much of the original park, its intent not to keep line drives inside the park but to keep nonpaying spectators along Lansdowne and Ipswich streets from watching games from the second story — or rooftops — of nearby buildings.

As a kid, we referred to Fenway’s color as “men’s bathroom green.” A bit of Internet sleuthing uncovered a pair of tidbits. The color was once called “Dartmouth Green,” after the colors sported by that historic college in my native state of New Hampshire. Unsurprisingly, the park’s paint now has a corporate sponsor: Benjamin Moore. The park is now officially painted in Green Monster 12, paying homage to the year the park opened. I will keep that color in mind next time a painting project pops up.

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We quickly settle into the rhythms of the game. This is the first time I have personally seen a game when the pitching clock is being used. I am decidedly a fan, calculating that it shaved about 30 minutes off this game. Not that we are in a huge hurry, but the clock surely is helping keep fans engaged. Baseball these days is a hard sell in a world used to rapid action and nearly nonstop stimuli. Baseball is a game of scintillating moments that punctuate long stretches of routine plays.

The game stays close. The Rangers tie it up in the 9^th, forcing extra innings. Texas goes up by a run in the top of the 10^th, then the Red Sox quickly fill the bases and win with a walkoff double by one of the players whose name escapes me. We head back to the hotel holding sacks of souvenir swag, our annual Fenway fix complete. Lord willing, we will return next year.

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