by admin | August 12, 2016 8:37 am
FENWAY PARK — I love to write that dateline. It means I’m back in one of my favorite places on the planet, whether it’s to watch the Red Sox or take in a concert. Fenway is a shrine, a coming-home place, a venerable, idiosyncratic stadium that I have visited for more than 50 years. I plan to come back for, optimistically, at least another 30 years.
Longevity is in the genes, so I like my chances of continuing the tradition of showing up here most summers. My late mom’s older sister, Aunt Irene, who lives nearby in Bristol, Connecticut (most everything is nearby from a Texas perspective) is well into her 80s and caught a game in June. She showed up for the same reason I arrived with my Beautiful Mystery Companion and daughter Abbie — to watch David Ortiz, aka Big Papi, bat in person a final time. He is retiring at season’s end. My BMC generously bought the tickets as a 61st birthday present. It was a fine gift.
For non-baseball folks, David Ortiz has been the mainstay of this team for 14 seasons, which includes three World Series championships. The first came in 2004, an amazing run that we Red Sox fans will never forget or quit talking about. Down three games to none to the despised Yankees in the AL championship, somehow the Sox came back to win four straight and then sweep the Cardinals in the World Series. Eight straight wins. The Curse of the Bambino, enacted when the Sox traded Babe Ruth to the Yankees in 1918, was finally erased. Three years later, I went to Game One of the 2007 Series, which the Sox won. I celebrated the 2013 Series championship via television.
Now Big Papi, at 40, is retiring, but he is not going quietly. At present, he leads the league in RBIs, is in the top 10 in batting average, top five in home runs. A giant of a man with a quick smile and a fierce competitive spirit, he is a force of nature. He is scary-dangerous at the plate, especially when the stakes are high.
We settle into our seats in right field, on the foul side of the yellow pole marking the line. Once the sun sets behind the first base side, just before the first pitch, the air cools. We are seated in Fenway in early August, not breaking a sweat, about to watch the Red Sox play the Yankees, a sporadic breeze wafting through the stadium. It does not have to get any better than this, at least for this Fenway fanatic.
One aspect of sitting in Fenway that takes getting used to is, shall we say, the exuberance and verbosity of the Boston fans. I was talking to a friend the other day. He recounted that on his visit to Fenway he thought the first baseman’s name for the opposing team was “Pizzocraap.” Possibly Italian. Because the fans kept yelling, “You piece of…”
That’s not exactly what was said, but you get it.
During the game we attended, the crowd chanted, “Yankees suck!” with gusto, which offended my BMC. Until she went through rehab, she was a Yankees fan. She took great offense, wondering what kind of message these fans were sending to young children. I did not say this at the time, not wishing to be head-slapped, but my first thought was, “Well, don’t be a Yankees fan.”
I’m sure there is a head slap in my future.
Later on, the crowd sarcastically chanted “We want A-Rod,” the Yankee once-great, now benched and about to be released. A-Rod did not play that night.
A fight nearly broke out between these two teams who Do Not Like Each Other. A Yankee tried to stretch a nice double into a triple but was thrown out. He took offense and started shouting at the pitcher. That was confusing, since the pitcher gave up the near-triple. Both benches emptied as well. Since we were seated near the bullpens we had a great view of the relief pitchers and utility catchers racing to the scene. Blue-and-white pinstripes faced off against red leggings and blue caps. The umpires manned the demilitarized zone. Order was soon restored. No punches were thrown, but testosterone wafted along the breeze.
Big Papi, after a few failed at-bats, drummed a double off the Green Monster and knocked in a run. All was well in the world. We got to see this future Hall of Famer once again come through, and the Sox held on to win, 5-3.
It was Big Papi Bobblehead Night, but instead we were given a voucher. The team’s brass had determined the bobbleheads were not up to Red Sox standards. One must go online and order the promised bobblehead. I did so once back in the hotel room. That bobblehead will take an honored seat along my autographed Carl Yastrzemski baseball.
I hope to return next season, even without Big Papi in the lineup.
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