The Lord's Day
Two hours before Izzie and I were slated to leave work on our last day before the trip, she got a call from our pal Swany. We had planned to drive back to Washington on Sunday, but he asked if our plans could be rearranged to accommodate Sunday’s game. Izzie shouted over the cubicle, “Can we go to Sunday’s game?” Without bothering to put the shoes I had kicked off back on, I leapt out of my chair, ran around the corner, and nodded in affirmation. Turns out, a friend of a friend of a friend knew people. Those people had arranged for us to have two tickets waiting for us at will call on Sunday. Swany told Izzie there would be hell to pay if these tickets went unused, which struck us as curious, but we were too excited to dwell on it.
When Sunday rolled around, Izzie and I checked out of the Omni, somehow consolidating the 9 bags we brought with us into 7, and left our stuff with the bellhops. With a brief pitstop to pay our respects to Sam Adams, the patriot, we headed to Fenway for the third time that weekend.
We both opted to forego the jerseys in favor of other Red Sox tees, and now that I think about it, perhaps wearing my 1918 shirt was not a good idea, but there’s only so much superstition you can cave into. Izzie and I are experts at the rituals to save our team, which include hats to the back when the Sox are behind and her tapping my head three times when things get tense. Don’t ask how these came to be, but we’ve got a come-from-behind win against the Yankees and a Wily Mo grand slam that we saw in person to the credit of these rituals, so who in their right mind would mess with that?
As soon as we got to Fenway, we parked ourselves in front of the will call door, waiting for it to open. When it finally did, we were at the front of the surge to the window, but that’s when the trouble happened. Izzie gave them all of the information we had, but there were no tickets. My heart got stuck in my throat. How could we be this close? They wanted the name of the friend of a friend of a friend, but all we had were ours and Swany’s. Wouldn’t you know that Swany’s name was the magic word? When the ticket agent reappeared at the window, we were certain he’d tell us there’d been some mistake. Instead he handed Izzie two shiny tickets for Section 20 with Swany’s name on the receipt.
After we went through the turnstyles, we saw a sign that directed folks to section 21. We knew that at that moment we were entering the area roughly behind home plate, so if section 21 was right near there, then 20 should be... right... next, like right... behind...
Oh. My. God.
I looked at Izzie. Izzie looked at me. We both came close to shedding a tear. We sat down slowly and realized that we were sitting in the oldest seats in baseball, 25 rows behind the field, dead center behind home plate. We wouldn’t need to rely on the umpire’s calls because we would be able to see every pitch as it came over the plate. It was positively breathtaking.
Then the battery of phone calls and text messages began.
“Mom, guess where I’m sitting?!”
“Dad, you’re never going to believe this!”
“Swany! You're the best!”
Text message to my best friend, “Dude… I know you’re a Yankees fan, but you’ve gotta appreciate this!”
Text message to Kino, “Oh my God… this is unbelievable!”
Suddenly we knew why there would have been hell to pay if no one sat in these seats. Who would squander these?
I won’t say the novelty wore off, but right after I put my phone down, the hunger kicked in and distracted us. Izzie and I decided to break for food and were ecstatic to find that there was a concession stand AND a bathroom right behind our section. Could this be any more perfect?
With a Fenway Frank in one hand and a pretzel in another, I settled back into my old wooden seat to enjoy the pre-game festivities which included the Navy Leap Frogs parachuting into the park. A crisp, autumn-like breeze was blowing in from the outfield as we stood for the Anthem, and then the Red Sox took the field as I grabbed a pen to keep score of what would surely be a momentous game.
A brief aside about beer, tiny tanks, and roving vendors at Fenway. It came to our attention that the vendors at Fenway do not serve beer in the stands, so that means that every patron who would like a brew needs to get up to buy one at a concession stand. Of course, what goes in, must come out, so if multiple beverages have been consumed, then all of those people must get up at some point to empty their bladders. I do believe that Izzie and I ended up in the thirstiest row each night. I’ve never seen so many people get up and trip over us to get beer and to go to the bathroom than I did in the two days at Fenway, and that’s saying a lot seeing as how I have a bladder the size of a thimble. A word to the wise though… if you need to leave the row or come back into the row, don’t barrel in before I have the chance to move my legs, drink, or purse because I’m more apt to trip you and that beer of yours. Okay, I feel better now that I’ve gotten that off my chest.
I wish I could say the Red Sox won that game, but as we all know now, it was an ill-timed losing streak. We wondered if maybe we were the jinx, and as of yet, we haven’t been able to prove otherwise. The final score of the game was 2-1, and no amount of superstitious rituals could turn things around.
We left Fenway feeling a little dejected, but overall we couldn’t complain. In the span of 30 hours, we had touched the Green Monster, watched a homerun clear the wall, seen one of the best pitchers in baseball, sung “Sweet Caroline” with the Nation, and had one of the most coveted views in any major league park. What more could we ask for?
We had worshipped at the Cathedral of Baseball… in the name of The Sock, The Monster, and The Splendid Splinter... Amen.
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