Dan Goes to Fenway Park in Boston, MA, home of the Red Sox

I used to play it close to the vest.  You might be thinking, Really?  No way, Dan.  You?  
You transferred from the College of Wooster in Ohio to go to Arizona State sight unseen; quit your teaching job in Arizona and moved to Maine with Hannah, Molly, and Robyn without a job because you two wanted your kids to grow up in a small town in New England; drove 4500 miles Into the Wild to Fairbanks, Alaska with your family.  


As a kid, I was pretty cautious.  Let’s just say I still like my routines: morning rituals, working out at the gym, coffee at the Crumb with friends, a glass of wine with Hannah in the evenings.  The unknowns can be unsettling and immobilizing; but from a lifetime of taking such risks, I’ve learned that usually unexpected joys await when I step out of my comfort zone.  Driving into Boston on a rainy afternoon gives me another opportunity to put theory into practice. 

Days before, my childhood friend Tom invites me to a Sox game on an early Monday night in May.  (The Red Sox baseball team is “the Sox” in New England.)  I leap at the chance, but do not jump to any conclusions about what kind of Sox fan I am.  I am the classic fairweather fan.  The Sox are in last place now, and I am jumping ship.  Why, when the Sox won the World Series back in 2004 and 2007, I never stayed up past the first or second inning; and these were games that riveted sports fans in New England.  For me tonight, the Red Sox are a vehicle, a conduit, a perfect excuse to hang with Tom for an evening.  As usual, with me it’s all about the relationships.

When Hannah and I moved to Maine, people knowingly commented, You’re so lucky, you’ll be just an hour from Boston.  There is so much to do there.  We nodded, but basically in 30 years living just north of Boston, we avoided the city.  We pretend it doesn’t exist.  Given the choice, we head north to befriend the Coast of Maine or fly West to the less populated Rocky Mountain states.  We know little of Boston’s city charms.  Tonight is putting a pinkie toe in the Boston pond.   

I-93 south near the Boston Garden

Braving the elements, I drive south on I-95 to I-93 into the city in a rain that goes from intermittent rain to an all-out, wipers at double-speed downpour that slows the flow of cars to 25 mph.  Once in sight of the Boston Garden, traffic slows to a crawl as I enter the jaws of the evening rush hour.  Merging cars make accidents inevitable, though today I dodge such a fate.  Soon it’s two lanes into one on Storrow Drive as we creep and inch through the 17^th century organization of narrow and angled streets unfit for a 21^st century Boston of Audis, Priuses, and junkers.  Passing by Fenway Park itself, I see $35 parking for the game.  We are not in Kansas anymore.  


I repledge my love for my GPS.  There’s no way written directions would have me arrive at Tom’s place in town through this maze.  Once in Boston, I find myself in the classic out-of-towners dilemma – I want to go straight but am in the right turn lane.  Try as I might to get in the other lane, Boston drivers are without pity, despite my obvious Maine license plate, which cuts me no slack.

The T (Boston Subway)

Tom and I take the T (the Boston subway which does go above ground, too) to the game packed with Red Sox fans.  It’s game night and that trumps whatever kind of day the game-goers have had.  There is joy and expectancy in the air.  En masse we exit and walk as one to the baseball shrine, Fenway Park.  The mass of humanity and energy of the city invigorate and bedazzle me.  As a country mouse, I am in a world I do not know but find intriguing.

The iconic Citgo sign

Walking through the stadium gates, we enter the bowels of the massive structure.  We are greeted by a circus-like atmosphere of moving parts.  There are folks in colorful shirts and jackets and numerous booths to buy ballpark fare and Red Sox paraphernalia.  

For Tom dinner is a sausage sandwich with all the fixings while I feast on a filling and tasty chicken burrito with rice and salsa, all for $7 each.  Our front row seats in the second deck along the right field foul line to the left of the Budweiser beer garden give us a panoramic view of all the action. 

We take black plastic bags to cover our wet seats, but the night is 60+ degrees without any rain in sight and life is good.  I feel a serenity, a calmness having emerged from the belly of the beast (Boston traffic).

The Sox have had sellouts for years, but tonight, when rain was forecasted, one-third of the seats are empty.  Tom is a fan and knows his baseball while I have enough sports trivia in my head from wasting time in front of ESPN SportsCenter to hold up my end of the conversation.  With the Sox as a backdrop, we talk of children and futures and, thankfully for us and all around us, avoid the pathetic colonoscopy conversation of men of a certain age.

The Sox score early and pitcher Jon Lester is setting down the Seattle Mariners with ease.  By the time we are singing Take Me Out to the Ballgame during the seventh inning stretch, I have fallen into the lazy, mesmerizing rhythm of a baseball game.  Going to a baseball game is like having a good friend visiting, who engages you, but also lets you come and go, get a beer from the fridge, and then picks up the conversations right where you left off. 

Then, since our conversation ventures to many areas, I throw out, Do you say 'I love you to your girls enough?'  (He does.)  As with many questions, there are often more about the person asking the question than the actual question.  Lately, be it in emails, texts, or on the phone, I regularly tell our kids I love them.  I make sure I end every call with my 91 year old mother with a ringing I love you.  I wasn’t always that way, but it’s the now that matters.  

And then comes the eighth inning when the fans rise as one and sing along with Neil Diamond’s Sweet Caroline. (Enjoy this YouTube video of it by clicking on the triangle below.)

Jon Lester pitches a complete game 6-1 victory in less than two and a half hours.  Though the Sox remain in last place, they have won five in a row.  With a few more wins, the Sox may give me reason to jump back on the bandwagon.  The clouds are parting as the perfect backdrop for this fairweather fan.

Exiting down Boylston Street near 10P, Tom suggests frozen yogurt as we walk with hundreds leaving the game and heading for home.  Rolling into Berry Line, we order banana frozen yogurt in waffle cones. 

Strolling to the T with frozen yogurt and a good friend, I know I am the winner for leaving my comfort zone and taking the plunge.   Truly, it always seems to work that way.  So why the hesitation?   Deeply rooted past patterns and ruts that need continual attention and repaving.  


Perhaps, now is the time to seek out Boston’s charms without delay and without regret.