Izzie and I had driven to Boston with the mission of seeing a couple of Red Sox games, but our first Fenway experience would be well before they yelled, “Play ball.” Instead our first full glimpse would be on the famed ballpark tour.
When we got off the train at Kenmore Square, we followed the small stream of folks who looked like they knew where they were going. A father and his young son stopped to ask us where the park was, but we said we were looking for the same thing. We had a hunch it was just around the corner, and sure enough, we soon saw the towering lights of the Green Monster. We walked over the footbridge towards the back of Cask and Flagon, and my heart started beating just a little faster. When the sign for Yawkey Way came into view, I couldn’t help but smile.
The massive Yawkey Way Store was the holding area for the scores of fans gathered on this sunny day. Normally a junkie for gift shops, I was so overwhelmed by the amount of gear around me that I couldn’t even think about actually purchasing something. Instead I just wandered around, looking as if I were drunk on the Red Sox.
I had run outside to take a picture of a Warhol-esque Papelbon poster when I noticed the stragglers flocking back into the store. A little old man in a green polo was holding court for all of the pilgrims who had come from far away for the chance to have a quiet moment with the Monster. We soon found out that we wouldn’t be disappointed. It was as if the Voice itself whispered in our ears, “We will have access to the field today.”
As orderly as a motley group of fans can be, we marched across Yawkey Way and lined up in the tunnel in two lines. We groaned when the other line made the first move, but our disappointment soon evaporated when we were told we'd be the first ones on the field. With a little bounce in our steps, we wound our way along the inside perimeter of the park, walked down a few flights of stairs, and made a final turn down a ramp that opened onto the most glorious expanse of lawn I have ever seen in my life. Our guide stopped us so that the entire group could catch up, and then she said all we had to do was stay within the ropes along the Monster... and not take the grass or dirt. That was it. Then she stepped aside and allowed us to be alone with Fenway.
I stepped onto the brilliant orange gravel of the warning track. Hours later, the cleats of the Red Sox would pass over this very same spot, and perhaps one of the players would sprint in this exact direction to chase down a flyball. Then I walked to the right and stared up at the Monster. As my eyes adjusted, I could see the pock marks of hundreds of hits that have ricocheted off that perfect green wall. I saw the square cubbies that would soon be replaced with run totals. I passed four feet in front of the lights that would let over 35,000 fans know if that last fastball was a ball or a strike later that night. I stared at the door that had played a pivotal role in games of hide and seek for many an outfielder. My God... I was actually standing in front of the Green Monster.
And then I reached out to touch it.
Our tour guide brought us to all the nooks and crannies of the park, and my camera got quite the work-out. We went to the top near Conigliaro’s Corner and sat at the top of the Green Monster. We walked by the Red Sox Hall of Fame and passed the stacks of hot dogs buns that would be doled out later. We sat in the oldest seats in baseball and drank in a view that looked like Norman Rockwell himself had used his brush. We saw so much of the park that morning that by the time the first pitch rolled around, it would feel like we were coming home.
When the tour was over, Izzie and I had worked up a powerful hunger, so we walked up the street to a local restaurant for some lunch. As we made our way there, I happened to look down at my flip-flops and noticed that I still had the pale orange tinge of the warning track along the sides. It was at that moment that I knew we had really been confirmed into Red Sox Nation.
To be continued...
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