If my loyal readers haven't noticed already, it's been awhile since I last posted and I fear it may be awhile before I will again. It's not that I don't have a plethora of sports-related things to write about (the Red Sox World Series Championship being one of them, of course), but another writing project has usurped my attention for the time-being.
Please be sure to check back in after the holidays for some fresh new columns on HerSportsPov!
Thanks for your support!
I’m not going to write about the Red Sox. No stars, no scores, no hyperbole. There are already a million words out there describing every facet of their game. They don’t need me to add to the mix. But I do want to write about being a Red Sox fan.
As I was just walking back from Starbucks in my Red Sox sweatshirt, a woman stopped me and said, “Excuse me, can you tell me what happened in the game last night?” There was an eagerness in her eyes as I told her what had unfolded in Colorado. When I was done, she graciously thanked me and went on her way.
Yesterday there was a grizzled old man who passed by me in the check-out line. I was wearing one of my many Red Sox t-shirts, and as he walked by me, he said, “Nice shirt.” I turned to see who had made the comment, and as he continued to another register, I recognized the Boston cap on his head.
I was on my way home with the very groceries I had just purchased when my neighbor pointed out my shirt. We’ve never spoken before, but he asked me what I thought about the Ortiz-Youkilis-Lowell conundrum in a National League park. We may never speak again, but we had that moment.
And how about the boyfriend decked out in Sox gear who walked out of the Kelly Clarkson concert on the arm of his girlfriend. I too was wearing my gear, and we gave each other a simple nod of the head and said, “Go Sox.”
Then there are those who don’t care quite so much about the game, but love the people who do. My Mom has grown to love baseball because of me, but even she has her limits sometimes. Nevertheless, she told me that 30 minutes after she had decided to call it an evening, she asked my Dad to get up and check the score to see what was going on. She’s becoming a full-fledged Sox junkie!
There’s our "work mom,” the one who watches out for all of us from 9-5 every day. She text messages me after almost every game and is as superstitious as I am about what to do, wear, and say when watching the Sox.
Even my best friend, the Yankee fan, who will audibly express how much she loathes the Red Sox every chance she gets, respects my devotion and is the one responsible for giving me the Beckett jersey I treasure so dearly.
And of course, there's Izzie, Dusty, Meaks, Nuwanda, Sully, and Karch... those who have gathered with me at our local watering holes, at Fenway, at Camden, all to watch the Sox together. Plus Kino, Chase, Bay, and Expo who may not love the Sox, but love baseball enough to watch the Sox with us.
Red Sox Nation is not a cadre of obnoxious fans seeking to run roughshod over every other team. It’s a family… a family of fans and a family of those who love the fans.
I’m proud of the Red Sox. I’m excited about the season they’ve given us. But most of all I’m thankful for the memories my Red Sox family and I have had over the past six months. It’s been a ride to remember.
Barry Bonds. Floyd Landis. Jason Giambi. The list goes on, but the names are untouchable. These athletes exist in another realm apart from us, so when the accusations of their steroid use started flying, it was easy to have a sense of detachment.
But now Marion Jones.
I don’t follow track and field except once every four years, but inexplicably, I feel betrayed because she really seemed like one of us.
Exactly eight years ago, in October 1999, I was visiting Atlanta with my volleyball team for a tournament. I knew that I would play the last game of my collegiate career in that city, but just when it would happen depended on how far our young team could go. Even as the only senior among sophomores and freshmen, I felt we could go the distance with our strength, determination, and pure gutsiness. What we lacked in consistency, we made up for in spirit. It was a fine group of athletes, young women I was proud to be among.
The pressure of that tournament was palpable, but we pushed it out of our minds with a trip to Lenox Square Mall to do some shopping. My friend and I veered off from the group for a moment and went into Guess to check out the latest fashions. We were standing among the racks at the front of the store when we spotted two women near the wall. Something seemed very familiar about one of the women. She was tall, athletic, and cheery. I was certain I had seen her before. Then she turned, and I noticed a distinguishing characteristic. It was the tooth. Then I realized it was Marion Jones. I nudged my friend and both of us were floored. Here we were standing in the presence of a world-class athlete, a runner destined for greatness less than a year later in Sydney. We were just two lowly volleyball players from a small Division III college in Virginia, staring at one of the best competitors on the planet. We weren’t even fit to hold her sneakers.
Or so we thought at the time...
We were really standing in the presence of a world-class cheater.
True athletes capitalize on their strengths and compensate for their weaknesses through training and techniques. They don’t try to inflate their abilities and obliterate their blind spots through unnatural methods like she did.
Marion Jones didn’t just betray her family, her friends, her followers, and her fans. She betrayed young female athletes everywhere. So few of us ever have the chance to compete on the national and international stages of the sports world, but Marion Jones was one of the chosen few and she took her opportunities and destroyed them.
The team I went to Atlanta with was not composed of 6’4” dynamos who could spike the ball on the 10-foot line, but we were real. Every point and every kill, every shank and every gaff were ours and ours alone to be proud of or ashamed of.
And the mistakes were as plentiful as the triumphs. On the very last play of our tournament and my career, I shanked a serve that I can still see slicing through the air when I close my eyes. I watched as it flew off my arms and slammed straight into the wall. It felt like hell, but at least it was pure, 100% me.
The pain is just beginning for Marion Jones, but perhaps the greatest loss of all won’t be the parts we read about in the paper or see on TV. She’ll feel it when she’s alone with her thoughts, when she finally knows the sting of having the title of “athlete” stripped from her. It’s an ache every competitor who has lied and cheated his or her way to fame, fortune, and glory should have to face.
When I look back at how I stood in awe of the woman we all knew would bring home the gold, I feel disgusted, yet perversely, I feel proud that she stood in our presence. If she had turned around that day, she would have looked into the eyes of true athletes.
I’ve never liked goodbyes. No matter how good the other end of the spectrum looks, I have a hard time letting go of the memories. Maybe it’s because I’m a sap. Maybe it’s because I’m a sucker for history. All I know I that when I walked out of RFK Stadium a week ago, I had a lump in my throat.
It caught me by surprise. Were my eyes really welling up because I’ll never see another baseball game at that concrete toilet bowl again?
Yeah, I guess they were.
RFK is no heaven, but believe it or not, there’s a lot to miss.
Like the gentleman whose sweet sax sounds used to greet me when I got off the Metro.
Like the sight of that behemoth as I rounded the corner.
Like the one place on the upper level that actually sold nachos.
Like the nachos and the lukewarm cheese.
Like the bathrooms where I would rush between innings.
Like the scoreboard you couldn’t always see.
Like the Redskins-colored seats.
Like the undulating shadows on a summer afternoon.
Like the crowd, both on those days when the house was full and on those when I could hear someone laugh across the park.
And there’s still so much that can’t be photographed. There’s the sweet and sour smell that permeates the corridors… the roar of the crowd when Teddy Roosevelt ambles out of the tunnel in right field and inevitably loses… the memories of spending weekends and weeknights with my parents, my friends, my co-workers, my dates, and even just myself. I’ve giggled in those stands and I’ve fought in those stands. I’ve thought about things in my life and I’ve escaped from those very same things.
Only a mile away from my house, RFK became like a second home and a haven for me over the past three years, and though the new Nationals Park will be a magnificent place, I think there will always be a little part of me that longs for the ugly beauty of RFK.
If only I had cable in my bedroom. Then I would have been able to watch the impossibly early broadcasts of the Women’s World Cup. I’m ashamed to admit that I haven’t watched a single minute of live coverage, but I’m more ashamed that the only reason the World Cup has managed to break into the headlines is because of the catty dialogue coming from the locker room of the hometeam.
I don’t envy the position of any coach who must decide between the veteran and the phenom, trying to pinpoint the exact moment when the veteran’s experience is just a tick better than the phenom’s excellence.
Coach Greg Ryan thought he was making the right decision by starting Briana Scurry versus Brazil. He thought her past would prove more important than her present and she could lead her young teammates to the final. But by all accounts, her quickness and precision are waning, and she could not withstand the onslaught of a stronger Brazilian squad.
We’ll never know if Hope Solo could have done any better, but she has told everyone she would have. She chimed in to the dialogue that was already swirling around the decision, but she forgot one important adage, an adage that the youngest of athletes can recite by heart.
“There’s no ‘I’ in team.”
Critics said that Ryan’s decision to start Scurry over Solo might affect morale, and I’m sure that it did, but I would think loyalty to the whole team and its common goal would supersede loyalty to any one player. Loyalty has its place in sports, but this was not a situation that called for the rest of the team to turn in their jerseys in solidarity with Solo. Whether they agreed or not, they took the field with their other teammate, a teammate who still possesses immense talent and is still a member of the team for a reason.
I don’t believe that Solo meant to diminish the reputation of Scurry. I think her desire to win and her frustration at not being able to help her team do so clouded her judgment. In the end, it was a rookie mistake for her to speak out as vehemently as she did and that decision has cost her a role in the third place match versus Norway.
What happens with the National team from here on out waits to be seen. Whether Ryan, Solo, or Scurry return for the Olympics next summer will be hot topics, but for now there’s still one more match to be played in which the United States needs to rise above the fray.
Perhaps this is the time to follow the quiet example of the veteran.
We were playing on a beaten-up field just beyond 395 in Washington, DC. The basepaths were almost non-existent and every grounder had the potential to soar over a baseman’s head if it hit just the right pothole. The gnats zig-zagged through the air on that late summer evening, but none of us seemed to notice because there was business to be done.
As I guarded the runner on first in my peripheral vision, I looked over at our shortstop and third baseman. After three years of playing rec league softball, I had finally earned their trust. Though these guys had hearts of gold, they were not quick to believe that girls could be just as tough on the diamond as they were. But by playing the basics and then going that extra mile, I had finally proven myself worthy to be the recipient of their hardest throws.
As the next batter strode to the plate, I knew I would have to be vigilant for the double-play ball. When a chopper bounced through a gap in the infield, I rushed to the bag and readied myself. The runner raced towards me as I thrust out my glove hand toward my teammate. The throw was off-target, but I knew I could just about reach it while keeping my heel on the bag. Never one to back down during a softball game, I ignored the guy who had a good 60 pounds on me and focused on the ball. Both reached me at the same moment, but there was a tangle of arms and legs as he slid. I felt my body go off balance and there was nowhere else to break my fall. Without meaning to, I fell right on top of him. I was annoyed that I had fallen, but my main thought was that I had gotten him out. However, no one else agreed. Furious, I scrambled up and resumed my position.
Then from the sidelines, I heard it.
“Hey, Mike… you got to second base both ways!”
Baseball has long been used as an analogy in the world of dates and hook-ups, but just the other day I heard about what could possibly be the best use of the basepath metaphors. A friend told me about “Save 2nd Base,” an organization formed to raise awareness for and to combat breast cancer. The idea came from Kelly Rooney, a mother with breast cancer who didn’t lose her sense of humor even when it seemed there was so much else to lose. The t-shirt she designed became a rallying cry for her friends, family, and supporters, and though she lost her battle with cancer, her message and her humor carries on, inspiring millions of others in the fight.
My loyal readers have heard me rail against the evils of pink in the sports world, but this is the strongest exception I could ever imagine and I’d be proud to wear this pink baseball shirt anywhere.
If you’d like to find out more, visit Save 2nd Base.
After all, everyone wants to save 2nd base.
The Curse Reversed
I went to my last Red Sox game of the season on Sunday, and I’m relieved to say that I am no longer the living, breathing epitome of a black cat or a crack in the sidewalk. The Red Sox had gone 1-3 in games when I was rooting for them in person, but they squeaked by the Orioles with a 3-2 win in the blazing September sun at Camden Yards, thus breaking a streak that has caused me to have many a sleepless night.
There were some bursts of excitement on the field, but funny enough, the actual game ended up being the least noteworthy thing about this entire excursion.
Tailgate
The morning began with a tailgate in the parking lot underneath the highway outside Ravens Stadium or M&T Stadium or whatever.
Now I do not claim to know the art of the tailgate. I’ve eaten chicken salad out of the trunk of a car in the parking lot before a Maroon 5 concert. I joined a group of old Archives guards after a Redskins game and sampled some fine barbecue. I’ve even sat in the bed of a pick-up, with my hand shoved in a chip bag, marveling at the vim and vigor of the Barra Brava. But I’m no connoisseur of the tailgate.
With little schooling on the subject, I set out to organize the finest spread a wallet the week before pay-day could buy. The Red Sox and Orioles were set to take the field at 1:35, so our group settled on a breakfast tailgate, complete with bagels, donuts, and munchkins from that bastion of Yankee* ingenuity, Dunkin Donuts. Every bit of doughy goodness was sloshed down with generic orange juice, and suddenly we felt energized to accept our challenge as road representatives of the Nation.
Chanting Is Not Cheerleading
I was in a bar with some of these same cohorts in crime on a night several weeks ago when one pal came up with a soccer-style chant for Jason Varitek. It was catchy, it had rhythm, it was the perfect cap to an evening during which many a Sam Adams brew had flowed.
We had yet to break it out in public though… that is until Sunday.
When the captain of the Red Sox stepped to the plate, a friend and I seized the opportunity to receive the stares of several fans around us. Not quite sure what to make of the chant emanating from left field, they looked at us like we had just dropped the top girl in the pyramid.
And then it dawned on me. Was I cheerleading at a baseball game?
Then faster than you can say, “Bring it on,” my mind said, “No, you’re chanting.” That’s different.
It is, isn’t it?
“Varitek! Varitek! Swing it, swing it! Not a check! Varitek! Varitek! Go on, go on, give ‘em heck!”
Right?
Detrol LA
My best friend once sent for literature in my name after watching one of those “Gotta go” commercials. She thought it would be hysterical because I have an active bladder. It was funny, but what isn’t quite so amusing is my penchant for missing the good stuff while going to the bathroom.
Let me preface this by saying that the gametime temperature was 93 degrees. We were sitting directly in the sun, and I was wearing a polyester jersey. Blinking was enough exertion to make me sweat, so the chances of my needing to use the ladies’ room at any point during the game were slim to none. Except in the 6th inning when I decided that my need for nachos and my belief that I should go to the bathroom just because I was in a 20 yard radius of a toilet prevailed.
I was just buttoning up my shorts when I heard the foghorns go off, signaling a Baltimore homerun. I was annoyed that they had hit the dinger, but even more irritated that I had missed it. The action had been limited thus far thanks to my boy Beckett’s commanding presence, so any bit of bingo for either side was something I wanted to see.
When I got back to my seat, I realized just how much I had missed, and the homerun was last on the list. Turns out, location is everything and the homerun landed three rows in front of us, which meant our seats had been on TV. The problem was that the ball was not caught on the fly. It didn’t ricochet or rattle around in an empty seat. Instead it slammed squarely into the face of a fan who made an ill-fated attempt to one-hand it while still cradling his souvenir beer. The EMTs were working to care for the man when I sat down, and I felt terrible about the scene before me. Izzie told me that I would not have wanted to see it, that the sound it made was awful, that a small child had actually burst into tears. But… and I’m ashamed to admit it… there’s a small part of me that’s a little bit jealous of my friends who saw it. I can still tell the story of what happened, but it’s still not quite as good as if I had seen it with my own eyes. I know that’s wrong, and I really do feel badly, but people who rubberneck in glass houses shouldn’t throw baseballs.
All in all, I blame my bladder. If I didn’t have an active bladder, I never would have decided to go just for the hell of it, and I would have been there to see a little piece of history unfold three rows in front of me.
Oh, who am I kidding? I still would have gotten up for the nachos.
Piece de Resistance
After Jonathan Papelbon had safely secured the game for Beckett, the Red Sox, and fans everywhere, our little group made its way out to the tunnel. The ladies in our bunch decided a pitstop was mandatory thanks to an unfortunate encounter with the port-o-potties in the parking lot earlier. As we pushed the door open and got in line, Izzie called my attention to the most magnificent sight I have seen since Lindsay Lohan’s last mugshot. There before us, sitting on top of a garbage can overflowing with dirty paper towels lay a pink hat. Our minds started swimming with possibilities as to how it got there. Did a boyfriend buy it for his girl and she was offended? Did the boyfriend give it to her as a gift, and they had some fight at the game and the purging of the hat was a symbol of the destruction of their relationship? Was it… eh, who knows, but what I do know is that there has never been a more appropriate home for a pink hat!
Is This Heaven?
When the sun’s rays stopped frying us and the game started to wind down, I looked up and noticed how beautiful the clouds were. I grabbed my camera and fired off a few shots before taking the one below. When I finally uploaded it, I couldn’t help but think of the question, “Is this heaven?”
It sure is. Good baseball, good friends, good times.
* Yankee: n. a native or inhabitant of New England; adj. of New England. Not to be confused with Yankees: n. members of baseball's Evil Empire.
I've spent the better part of two weeks trying to suppress the vast amount of Catholic guilt I feel for not posting anything of late. It's not like I haven't had plenty of fodder. There was Michael Vick's come-to-Jesus moment, Clay Buchholz' no-hitter, and Teddy Roosevelt's failure to win the Presidents' Race at RFK on his bobblehead night. I've booed Barry Bonds from the upper deck in left field, ridden a bike for the first time in 16 years, and realized that Wii Sports can be considered exercise. But as badly as I wanted to write about all of these, the words and time eluded me.
But tonight I felt compelled to post a short note about a momentous day for female fans everywhere. On a lark, I just looked at MLB.com's shop to see if there was any new gear for the sports junkie. Suddenly my eyes fell on the most miraculous of sights. There before me was the Holy Grail of the female fan's attire.
Ladies, I give you...
New Era's Women's Essential Adjustable Caps
"An essential cap with a classic look! Embroidered team logo on team-colored cap. Fit for a woman's head, with a re-sculpted crown, adjusted rear slope, and trimmed visor. Adjustable back with metal clasp. 100% cotton."
There is no excuse now for the pink hat. It can be banned. It can be abolished. No one over the age of 6 should be allowed to come within a mile radius of a pink hat.
Makes you feel warm and fuzzy, doesn't it?
We’ve moved past the drugs, alcohol, steroids, philandering... even the shootings and the gambling don’t grip the headlines like they used to. We’re numb. We’re desensitized. It’s either too much to take in or we accept these as byproducts of sports. A few blips on the rap sheet no longer raise eyebrows, so in order to have staying power in a society with the collective attention span of a gnat, the infractions have to be bigger, badder, and more bizarre.
And that’s what we’ve got now.
We’ve got Michael Vick getting off on having dogs rip each other to shreds. We’ve got Jose Offerman wielding his tool of trade as a weapon on the diamond. And we’ve got Tim Donaghy fixing so many games that he makes the Black Sox look like choirboys.
Bigger, badder, and more bizarre.
We’ve gasped at the audacity of these athletic professionals, but as hard as it is to believe right now, we’ll soon be anesthetized to these stories. I’m already tired of hearing about Michael Vick. He deserves everything he’s got coming to him and I hope it’s enough to wipe that arrogant smirk off his face, but it’s a lot to process... how he could throw his career down the toilet and sully a sports world that has crowned him with so many accolades.
I hate the fact that Michael Vick and so many others have tainted sports with their behavior, but there’s been so much in the last several months that railing against it seems futile. Right now, I’d rather monitor the standings between the Red Sox and the Yankees, look for tickets for a Navy football game, and decide whether this is the year I drop the Dolphins for good.
I’d rather be uncomfortably numb, knowing that the scandals are corrupting the integrity of sports, but pretending that there is some shred of integrity left.
Whenever I have company, I try to roll out the red carpet. The food meant for five could easily feed any army. The candles spark to life with the flick of a match. The corners of the room where dustballs party are swept clean. The cushions on the sofa are fluffed for comfort, and the coasters are lined up on the coffee table for style. I may not have the ritziest of homes or the most sophisticated of wine offerings, but I strive to rank high on the hospitality scale.
On Friday night, I visited someone else’s house and I have to say they would put me to shame. I walked in as an ungracious guest and walked out appreciating that my hosts had ordered up a perfect evening for me in spite of the chip on my shoulder. After a few short hours, I realized that Camden Yards is indeed the most hospitable place to root-root-root for the visiting team.
When I arrived at 4:45 pm, the front gate of Camden was already swarming with Red Sox fans and I was hard-pressed to find an Orioles fan in the lot. Instead I was surrounded by the diehards from New England, the transplants, and the bandwagoners in every conceivable Red Sox shirt. If I were an O’s fan, I don’t think I’d be pleased to have my field taken over by a nation of fans who act like this is the Fenway Annex. But O’s fans don’t seem to mind all that much. They joined the lines and mingled with the faithful without a grumble.
For one reason or another, I had to chat with various members of the Orioles staff, and even they didn’t think twice about my walking up to them in a Sox shirt and hat. One was even so kind as to smile and say, “What can I do for you, young lady?” They didn’t seem to care that I had the cocky swagger of a fan whose team is in first place, that I clearly believed my team would win. Instead they saw a baseball fan with a question that needed answering.
I had purchased cheap seats in left field because it was a last minute decision to come to the game, but I was afforded a breathtaking view of the entire park. From my bird’s nest in the second to last row, I spied a sea of red with a sprinkling of orange. Once the game got underway and the beer started to warm up the crowd, the thunderous chants of “Let’s go, Red Sox…clap…clap…clap-clap-clap,” drowned out everything else. The O’s fans came back with their own chants, and they certainly would have been entitled to come back at us with some choice words as well, but they kept an even keel and quietly enjoyed the one run lead they carried late into the game.
To their credit, the Orioles contingent tried to act mean. After the seventh inning stretch, the familiar strains of “Sweet Caroline” filled the yard. You could see the red- and blue-capped fans turning, smiling, and bobbing their heads along to Neil. Even the weathered hearts of Sox fans softened with the scoreboard promise, “And now here’s a little something for you Red Sox fans.” But just as Neil was about to belt it out, the music cut off abruptly and the scoreboard screamed, “NOT!” Only it didn’t scream. It was more of a nice guy try. The Sox fans chuckled, appreciating the humor, but no one took offense.
When the eighth inning exploded in a run fest for both sides, with the Red Sox first surging ahead for a 5-1 lead and the Orioles answering with four runs of their own, the Orioles fans had every reason to turn to the Sox fans and give them raspberries, but they didn’t. Instead they sat back and calmly rode the momentum into the ninth inning with everything tied.
The top of the ninth saw the Red Sox strand two runners on the basepaths. The Orioles came back in the bottom of the inning with a double, a bunt, and a sacrifice fly that drove in the winning run, and the Orioles fans erupted with cheers and applause. Their boys had fought harder for the glory, and ours had completely imploded on the field. The Birds deserved all of the kudos, and even Red Sox Nation could appreciate that. As I walked out of the yard, I was prepared to hear Orioles fans gloating about the drubbing their team had delivered, but the only words I heard were the strong chants of “Let’s go, Red Sox.” Even in defeat, Boston fans were eager to shout their allegiance, and even in victory, Orioles fans found no reason to stop us. They had won the game in memorable fashion and that’s all they needed to make the night complete.
I’m used to watching my teams play in opposing parks. I’ve seen the Red Sox at Yankee Stadium and the Marlins at Shea. A Yankee fan got in my grill and called me a “Chowdahead,” and Mets fans hurled cups in the direction of me, my Dad, and my “Fish Fans” sign. I knew I was asking for the taunts then because that’s what you get when you tread on someone else’s turf in enemy colors, but going to Camden actually feels like the exception to the rule. Orioles fans are kind and hospitable. They lay down the red carpet for opposing teams and their fans regardless of how virulent the opponents can be about their loyalties. Like good hosts, they believe what's most important is for fans to get comfortable, have a fun time, and enjoy a good baseball game.
At 11:52 p.m. EST, I watched Barry Bonds break Hank Aaron’s record. After his son congratulated him and his teammates walked (not ran) to home plate to greet him, Bonds tipped his hat to the hometown crowd, gave Willie Mays a hug, said a few words, shook a few hands, and then sat at the end of the dugout bench by himself. You couldn’t mistake the look of relief on his face that the pressure of the chase was finally over, but what was missing was the jubilance, the pure boyish delight in having accomplished the unthinkable. Instead, it was the face of a very jaded man who has stolen a piece of immortality.
I watched the events unfold with resignation, as I know fans who were still awake were doing and those who will learn about it in the morning will do. We knew it was coming. It was just a matter of time, just as it’s only matter of time before the digging and investigating come to a head. I want Bonds to get his comeuppance for tainting the game, but I’m almost afraid of the fallout that will accompany the home run king being dethroned by irrefutable evidence. The game has lost a little of its innocence through Bonds’ pursuit of the record, but how much will these revelations cost baseball? This boil will make the strike of 1994 look like a pimple, and we all know how long it took for that blemish to heal.
Instead of congratulating Bonds, I want to give my condolences to Mike Bacsik, Jr. of the Washington Nationals. It was tough luck to deliver the pitch Bonds launched into the stands for 756*, but we know it wasn’t for lack of fighting against the inevitable.
Mike, it must have been a lonely place on that mound with thousands of flash bulbs committing your moment of infamy to memory, but just remember that you’re not the one who will go down in baseball history for being infamous.
I was locked in a dead heat with my opponent. We stared each other down, and each turn of the crib offered a chance for a lead change. I had come back from a seemingly insurmountable deficit, but a few good hands loaded with nines and sixes, face cards and fives had allowed me to come roaring back. One the final hand, my opponent went ahead by four, and I knew for certain I had eight. As I tallied the score for my hand, my opponent watched quietly. Her promise to whoop me had failed to materialize. I was the victor.
And the she said, “Maybe if you had given me those points before, it would have been different.”
The blood rushed to my face and I screeched, “Mom, that’s not true!”
Yes, my mother and I had a grudge match over the cribbage board and she accused me of cheating. The problem was that neither of us has played in some time, so there were a few scoring rituals we couldn’t quite remember. We went with what we thought we could recall and kept it uniform for both of our turns, but seeing as how she’s the origin of my distaste for losing, she used the scoring snafu as a way to undermine my glory.
I railed against her. I had won fair and square. There was no way I could put my head on the pillow and have her believe I had cheated my way to a win. Like a battering ram, I defended my position and pushed away the asterisk that floated like a storm cloud above my head. I had fought back as the underdog and now I was fighting for the credit I deserved.
Barry Bonds tied Hank Aaron’s home run record on Saturday night. 755 home runs is an impressive number. It’s the most hallowed record in sports. It’s an achievement mere mortals couldn’t hope to accomplish, and yet two men have. One was pure; the other we’re not so sure.
Bonds should be proud of his feat, but what I want to know is why he’s not fighting harder to defend himself. If he didn’t cheat, if he didn’t take steroids, why is he not defending himself until he’s hoarse? Why would he allow the naysayers to detract from what he has supposedly earned outright? If I were in his shoes, one critic would be enough for me to speak out. Why isn’t Barry?
Maybe he believes he doesn’t have to defend himself, that he should just go about doing what he’s doing and to hell with the rest of us. Maybe he’s a unique person who doesn’t care what other people think of him, but the problem is that he works in a profession where 50,000 watch him on any given night and care what he does, so he should be cognizant of what the fans think.
I don’t believe Barry Bonds is worthy of 755 or 756, but he might make me a believer if he fought back against the asterisk.
Late last week, Jeff Conine was asked what it was like to play with Cal Ripken, Jr., a man who has set the bar for class in Major League Baseball. Conine expressed his admiration for Ripken, citing his dedication, knowledge, and passion for the game, but what was lost in that interview was that it was one class act praising another.
When Conine most likely hangs up his cleats at the end of the season, he won’t be remembered as the greatest player who ever played the game, but he’s had brushes with greatness. He came in 3rd on the 1993 Rookie of the Year ballot, behind Mike Piazza and a player whose career fizzled shortly thereafter. He was the 1995 All-Star Game MVP. He has two World Series rings to his credit. He owns a solid career batting average and a strong fielding percentage. Statistics aside though, he’s always been the guy playing quietly under the radar, doing well, setting the tone, making every team he has played for better because of his presence. If he retires this year, he won’t get the fanfare he deserves, but his fans will remember the classy way he played the game.
Last night, I went to see the Reds at RFK in order to see Jeff Conine take the field one last time in person. Decked out in my old-school, teal Conine t-shirt and armed with a sign I made out of a pillow case last year, I rushed to RFK so that I might have the chance to catch a glimpse of Conine before batting practice ended.
As I made my way down to the field, I couldn’t help but think back to the time I stood by the dugout of Shea Stadium, waiting patiently for the Marlins to finish batting practice. With only minutes to spare before the National Anthem, Jeff Conine made his way to our section and signed every baseball trinket that was thrust in front of him. When a young girl with glasses and a ponytail sticking out of the back of a bright teal cap put her Marlins yearbook in front of him just as the Anthem singer was being announced, he kindly signed, “Jeff Conine 19.”
Some 13 years later, I was now seeing Conine on a different team, in a different city, in a different park, but the graciousness was exactly the same. He walked over to the group gathered by the visitors’ dugout at RFK and signed no less than 50 items put in front of him, including a homemade sign from this fan who remembers the kindness he showed to me so many years ago. When Conine finished writing, “Jeff Conine 19,” and handed the pillow case back to me, he looked me in the eye and said, “Thanks for the sign.”
Thank you for the memories, Jeff Conine. Thank you for being the type of player fans can feel proud to root for.
I misjudged you. I still don’t like your flair-covered clothing line, but I respect your intentions and you and I are more alike than I ever thought I could admit. You’re no bandwagon baseball fan and I apologize for thinking you’re a serial pitcher dater. You’re true blue, and I would burn a pink hat with you any day.
The reason for my about-face has to do with an article Milano posted on her blog a few months ago. In a piece, entitled “The Female Fan and The Business of Baseball,” Milano discussed how television executives like to court women because they are the most loyal viewers and the most loyal consumers. Loyalty translates to the sports world, but the sports world does not necessarily embrace loyalty as a commodity. Milano asks, “How does the way baseball business is run affect the loyal female fan or the potential female fan? And do you think baseball would have more female fans if there were more franchise players signed to longer contracts?” I’m with Samantha Micelli on this one. Women invest themselves in people, not statistics. Sure, we want our teams to win, but we also want to root for the same players year after year. We don’t want pink hats; we just want our boys.
Some players and front offices value loyalty as a commodity, but with the induction of Cal Ripken, Jr. and Tony Gwynn this weekend, I feel like we’re celebrating a dying breed. I’m grateful that I remember the days when Brett meant Royals, Yount meant Brewers, Sandberg meant Cubs, Mattingly meant Yankees, and Murphy meant Braves. This was the era in which I grew to love baseball, and it’s still hard to adjust to a time in which contracts and trade deadlines monopolize the headlines.
The business of baseball can break the bonds of loyalty, but sometimes the bonds are too tough to break. Tonight I’ll be standing by the visitors' dugout of RFK Stadium, waiting for Jeff Conine to emerge. A member of the Royals, Marlins, Royals again, Orioles, Marlins, Orioles again, Phillies, and now the Reds, Conine has made decisions and has had decisions made for him, but through it all, I've remained loyal. He doesn’t play for my favorite team and I don’t really care if his current team wins tonight, but I do want to see him on the field one last time before he retires from the game that hasn’t always been loyal to him and to his fans.
I’m tired of reading about doping, gambling, dog-fighting, and the all-around stupidity that has infiltrated the headlines this week. The athletes and officials who have sullied their sports with their greed and idiocy deserve public humiliation, but I’m too tired of their antics to even mention their names right now.
Instead I want to mention these names:
Mike Coolbaugh. Skip Prosser. Maggie Hilbrands.
Mike was a minor league coach who tasted big league dreams for a second before finding his niche as a father and a mentor.
Skip was a leader on and off the court, inspiring young basketball players to push their limits while gaining the respect of his colleagues from coast to coast.
Maggie was on the verge of becoming a teenager and unleashing a wealth of talent on the diamond.
This week, all three died doing what they loved most.
In light of these tragic deaths, it’s easy to think that sports are trivial, and they are… until we remember how much of these people’s lives were devoted to them and that’s when they gain such poignancy.
The cheaters who have dominated our headlines don’t deserve to be a part of a sports world where true competitors like Mike, Skip, and Maggie have walked. They don’t appreciate the gifts they have and the stage they’re on. Instead they squander these precious moments to boost their egos and pad their wallets. They dishonor themselves, fans, and every other athlete, coach, and referee who views sports through the lens of fair play.
They dishonor people like Mike, Skip, Maggie, who I wish could have cheated just once... just enough to cheat death.
I wonder if David Beckham has ever seen Teen Wolf.
You know the story. Boy turns into wolf. Wolf becomes phenom. Fans love phenom for a spell, but suddenly start to miss boy. Wolf turns back into boy and wins the game on pure heart. Cue music. Roll credits.
Or something like that.
David Beckham is our soccer’s “wolf,” only with a lot less hair as we’ve had the eye-searing pleasure of seeing thanks to W Magazine. He’s been imported to enlighten us about the world’s game (though when have Americans ever followed the rest of the world?). I have no doubt that Beckham’s arrival will boost interest in the sport and merchandise vendors will be as giddy as Stiles surfing on top of a hardware van, but will it last?
The biggest boost will probably be to our sport of celebrity worship, with Posh’s US Weekly article count rivaling that of Paris or Lindsay, but what about the other players, both teammates and opponents alike? These men have been toiling for years, and yet it takes the arrival of a superstar to validate their efforts? Sure, they will certainly benefit because they’ll have the chance to play in front of bigger crowds and bigger crowds lead to more revenue and that just might lead to a raise, but they’ll probably never earn enough to hang with the Soccer Savior on the cheapest of his excursions and they deserve to be more than just Beckham’s supporting cast.
So once Becks has finished his tour of the country this year, once the vendors are done hawking their wares, once the novelty of the world’s best being on our soil wears off, what will happen next?
At the end of the movie, the wolf turns back into everyman because he can see the heart and soul of his game and his team were lost in the trappings of fame.
Can David Beckham really shed the aura of his celebrity on the American field? Can one man really make us fall in love with soccer?
If he succeeds, it will be a miracle. If he doesn’t, we won’t miss something we never had and this will all have been a delightful diversion before the American pastimes kick into high gear for the fall.
It was among the top ten headlines ESPN.com had on its homepage on July 9th. Then it was gone.
Jury rules against Fresno St. in discrimination case, awards Vivas $5.85M.
Lindy Vivas, the former head volleyball coach at Fresno State, was fired in 2004 because the university said she had failed to achieve the objectives outlined by the athletic department. She hadn’t won a championship; she couldn’t pack the house; and she didn’t schedule enough games against elite adversaries. The reasons seem plausible... after all, other coaches, both male and female, have been fired for less. But there was more to this story.
Vivas claimed she had been dismissed for less tangible reasons, such as being a voice for women’s athletics. She was an advocate for Title IX, believing that her players deserved the same treatment afforded to other athletes at Fresno State, perks as extravagant as snacks on the road. The football team got goodies; the volleyball team was denied. I understand the argument that men’s sports bring in more revenue, so they are entitled to more. But we’re not talking new sneakers. We’re talking pretzel baggies.
Fresno State built a state-of-the-art gym, but the volleyball team was only allowed to play one match a year there. If the university sent the message that the team wasn’t good enough to compete in the best facility, why would anyone bother to show up at the games unless they were bound by blood, friendship, or sex to do so? And if the team was relegated to an old gymnasium, what would make any school in the top 25 believe they were contenders?
The other component of Vivas’ lawsuit was harder to prove, but no less real. The perception was that Vivas is a lesbian, and that several members of the university community wanted her gone because of it. To my knowledge, Vivas has not made her sexual orientation public, but even if she had said she was a lesbian while she was at Fresno State, does it have any bearing on her abilities as a volleyball coach? When was the last time a male coach said, “I’m heterosexual; therefore, I can coach.”?
Society has come a long way, but on the road to acceptance, we’ve gone about 30 feet. As long as there is a stigma about being gay and as long as being a woman who loves sports is perceived to be gay, then female athletes will continue to be the subject of whispers. And if they are constantly scrutinized for their sexual orientation, then they will continue to be marginalized in the sports world because the dialogue revolves around their personas rather than their abilities.
College is supposed to be a learning experience, but what did Fresno State teach its students and the generations to come? By dismissing Vivas, they reinforced our need for Title IX because clearly society isn’t ready to put every female athletic program on the same plane as the male counterparts. Furthermore, in allowing the campus to become a petrie dish of intolerance, Fresno State sent the message that in order for any woman to be involved in sports, she has to be prepared to defend herself in order to protect her love of the game.
All kids need to learn that the world is a cruel place sooner or later, but the playing field should be the one place they can be themselves and give their all without worrying that someone is cheating them or judging them.
Coach Vivas recognized that. A jury recognized that. When will everyone else?
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.
Fenway Faithful
There was a list of emergency contacts and a FedEx plan in the event that the Red Sox tickets were left home alone. Izzie and I had talked about it on a few occasions even though we were both certain it would be near impossible to leave them behind. Of course, the story probably would have been more dramatic if that had happened, but that is not a story I would have wanted to live. Rest assured, two tickets to see the Red Sox and Rangers were safely tucked away in Izzie’s purse, and the four of us made it safe and sound to Fenway Park on that Saturday night.
After the Fenway tour and a quick loop around Quincy Market, we had returned to the hotel to change into our gear. Izzie had her Ortiz jersey; I had my Beckett. She was in her blue Sox cap; I was in my red. We had donned these outfits several times before, always sticking out just a little in the Mid-Atlantic, but never caring when it came to the matter of team pride. We still stood out a little bit in the ritzy lobby of the Omni, but once we hit the streets, we blended right in. We were waiting for the T when a girl with a thick Boston accent asked us for directions, and I have to say I was flattered that we looked like we belonged.
When we got to Kenmore Square and turned the corner onto Yawkey Way, the sight before us was much different than it had been that morning. The street was jam-packed with people in every Red Sox outfit imaginable. Smoke from the sausage vendor’s station hung in the air. There was an electricity that just doesn’t exist anywhere else.
After weaving through the crowd, we made our way to the turn-styles and then headed off in the direction of our seats in Section 10 along the right field line. We sat down and surveyed our view of the field. It was fantastic… except for the pole that blocked our sightline to the pitcher’s mound. My heart fell when I realized that Fenway’s famous obstructed view would prevent me from seeing Josh Beckett going for win number 12. I didn’t say a word about it, but Izzie read my mind and offered to switch seats so that I could at least see Josh’s wind-up.
Content in knowing where we’d be sitting and being the nacho connoisseurs that we are, Izzie and I then hit the concessions to see how the chips and cheese would compare to Baltimore, Philly, and RFK. I’m happy to report that the Fenway nachos held their own. The cheese was hot (unlike RFK), though they did not provide the plethora of chips that Baltimore does. (Incidentally, Philly still has the best chips because the oval shape renders biting the chip in half unnecessary, in case you were wondering.) I will admit that I did not partake of the Fenway Frank on that first night because I was too overcome with joy at the prospect of eating a Papa Gino’s pie for the first time in years, but I will say it was everything I remembered it to be.
I gobbled down my food just in time to see Josh Beckett jog across the outfield and begin his calisthenics routine, for which I now have entire sequence of photos for you to enjoy.
That night at Fenway, the Red Sox were honoring folks with mental and physical disabilities, so there were several moving moments during the pre-game ceremonies, but none tugged at the heartstrings more than the singing of the National Anthem. A young man who was mentally challenged stepped up to the microphone and serenaded us with the slightly off-key strains of the Star-Spangled Banner. Right around the time we should have been hearing about the rocket’s red glare, the man started to giggle. Then he sang another line, but the giggling was infectious and we couldn’t help but laugh with him. Before long, it was clear that the young man wouldn’t be able to finish because the laughter had eaten up the words, and that’s when 35,000 voices became one as every fan in the park helped him finish the song. I had goose bumps from head to toe. And who says Sox fans are incorrigible?
The Red Sox didn’t disappoint us during the first few innings. Beckett seemed to have the right stuff, and the offense took advantage of a weaker Rangers pitcher by scoring 4 in the first two innings. Youkilis hit a shot over the Green Monster, and the young Jacoby Ellsbury made his major league debut by beating out an infield grounder to first. Afraid to say anything that might jinx the evening, I turned to Izzie and said, “If this stays... well, you know... then we need to get a beer afterwards to, you know...” Well, apparently even that allusion to victory was too much for the gods of the jinx because not long after I tempted fate, things started to fall apart. During the 4th inning, the Rangers lit Beckett up and scored 4 runs of their own. Annoyed, but confident, I went to the bathroom in the 5th, thinking that our bats would prevail. Sadly it was Sammy Sosa’s bat that prevailed. He jacked one that hit just above the line on the Monster for the go-ahead run, or so I heard, and the Rangers didn’t need anymore. Becket would go on to lose only his second game of the season.
The Nation kept the faith right up until the bitter end though. The fans summoned up the air in their lungs once again for a rousing rendition of “Sweet Caroline” in the 8th and jumped to their feet to participate in the best wave I’ve ever seen. The crowd undulated with gusto a full four times before people’s arms got tired. Even when Youk, Papi, and Manny went down 1-2-3 in the bottom of the 9th, there was still that electricity of hope in the air.
For Izzie and I, that hope was a little more urgent. We had one more chance to see our team on their home field before we left Boston. It was do-or-die time for our boys.
One last note... when Izzie and I walked back into the hotel, a well-dressed wedding guest in the middle of the lobby took one look at us in our jerseys and launched into a drunken commentary about the Yankees. Izzie took one look at him and cracked, “That’s brave in the middle of Red Sox country.” We would’ve liked to have stuck around to see if he would be fed to the lions, but we were still smarting from the loss and we had a win to pray for.
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...
Communion
Izzie and I were up, at ‘em, and on the road by 9 am on Friday morning. We made our way through the Connecticut Valley, and Izzie patiently listened as I pointed out the most random of details about my home state… or rather my life story in my home state. “See that mile marker? I once sneezed while driving by it in 1989.”
The day started off gray and cloudy, but just after we passed Bristol, the home of Boomer, Stu, and my schoolgirl crush, Karl Ravech, the sun pushed through and all that lay above us were bright blue skies for the final stretch to Boston.
Our journey into the heart of the city brought us right past Fenway Park, but our first stop would be the hotel so we could continue our trip unfettered. After we were done with the rigmarole at the front desk, we headed out to find a bite to eat. As we walked the three blocks to Quincy Market, we started taking note of the folks in Red Sox attire as if we were back in DC and this was something out of the ordinary. Then it clicked. Toto, we’re not in Kansas anymore; we’re in Red Sox country and the majority of people are just like us. It was a lot to absorb at that moment and we tried not to yell excitedly or point every time someone passed with a Sox shirt lest we be mistaken for crazy tourists.
After lunch, we put money on our “Chahlie cahds” and hopped the T to Jamaica Plain and the Samuel Adams Brewery. Both Izzie and I consider ourselves connoisseurs of the Sam Adams brews, so going on the tour was like icing on an already stellar cake. We heard about the hops and barley from our one-man-comedy-show of a guide and even had the chance to see the birth of a bright and shiny keg, but we were all there for one reason… free beer. When the guide was finished talking, we were then herded into a back room loaded with Sam memorabilia and the same Red Sox World Series pennant that adorns the wall of my bedroom. We took our seats at the end of the room and watched in awe as a beautiful, clear, amber-colored pitcher made its way down to us. I don’t know that there is a finer place in the entire world to drink Sam than in that very room.
Once our penchant for Sam Adams and mine for a good gift shop had been met, Izzie and I made our way back to the city for dinner. We were on a mission to find a place where we could enjoy some more Sams, have a good meal, and watch the Red Sox game. Again we were in DC mode, thinking that it would somehow be difficult to find a locale with NESN. We settled on the Green Dragon Tavern where the Boston Tea Party had been planned and Sam Adams himself had certainly enjoyed a nice ale on a brisk New England day long ago. Just thinking of that gives me goose bumps and puts me in the upper echelons of nerd-dom, but I digress.
As we sat near a window that opened to the street, listening to the din of fans in our own bar and that from the bar across the street, we were both struck by how awesome it was to be watching the Red Sox in Boston while enjoying a Sam Adams beer. Nothing against our favorite watering holes at home, but it was really something special. It was a communion we could only feel right there, right then.
While we were watching the Red Sox cruise to victory, I noticed an older woman sitting at a table nearby, and it was clear that she had had many a beverage. Just after the waitress brought yet another round, I heard her talking about how baseball was classic, American, and damn near perfect. I turned to Izzie and said, “That’s what I want to be when I grow up… a feisty old broad talking about baseball.” She looked me right in the eye and said, “I have no doubt at all that you will be.” A girl can dream...
Unfortunately, our time at the Green Dragon ended with the arrival of a cover band and a speaker stand that blocked my view of the television, so we headed back to the hotel where we snuck into the swanky, paneled bar there. We hid behind a pillar so the bartender couldn’t see us hovering without ordering, but who were we kidding? He knew we were there, but he also knew why we were there. It was for the same reason that a woman who looked like she couldn’t have cared less about baseball asked the bartender for the score of the game. We were all in it together.
After the third out of the 9th, I looked at Izzie’s watch. T minus 12 hours...
To be continued...
Baptism By Fire
After spending an inordinate amount of time deciding which pair of mesh shorts to wear in the car and doing a mental rundown of my packing list for the 47th time, I figured that tweezing my eyebrows would be a good way to pass the time and burn off nervous energy before the big trip. I was midway through the right eyebrow when Izzie arrived, so I gathered my many bags and hustled out the door. Between the two of us, you’d think we were actually transporting the Red Sox batting equipment, but a true fan must have options to suit every occasion and superstition.
With the aid of my Dad’s EZ Pass and our friend Kino’s iTrip, the drive was going swimmingly as we zipped up 95. We sang along to Augustana’s “Boston” and jacked the volume up for “Tessie.” We hit the rest area trifecta (bathroom/gas/Starbucks) and had an enjoyable lunch at the Joyce Kilmer stop on the New Jersey Turnpike, during which we determined that it was not in fact named for the ex-wife of Val Kilmer (a.k.a. Joanne Whalley Kilmer, a.k.a. Scarlett of 1990’s miniseries fame). By the time we saw the New York skyline through the haze of the summer day, it seemed like a sure bet that we’d reach our midpoint destination in Connecticut right on schedule.
As a rule, Red Sox fans never spit up in the air, walk under ladders, or pretty much say anything because we know the opposite is bound to happen. Even after 2004, that’s a mentality I just can’t seem to shake. Why I even had the conscious thought that we were making great time was just a disaster waiting to happen. Luckily, we didn’t encounter a major catastrophe like a flat tire, a thunderstorm, or a seagull with a bad stomach, but the rest of the trip did not go quite as smoothly as the start.
Let’s just say that I would like to take this opportunity to thank Mapquest for giving us the privilege of a drive through Newark, New Jersey. It truly is lovely this time of year. I also can’t forget to give a shout out to the George Washington Bridge in all its bumper-to-bumper glory for allowing us to enjoy the incomparable view you can only get from the top level when you’re going 3 miles per hour. Simply stunning.
(And if you’re at all familiar with the Northeast Corridor and still trying to figure out how it’s possible to go to Connecticut by way of Newark, just stop. Really. Please.)
With the monkey wrenches of Newark and the Cross Bronx Expressway safely behind us, we continued towards New England in less than stellar moods. Slowly our excitement about Fenway started to seep through the travel malaise even though we had miles to go before we would see the Monster with our own eyes. However, what we didn't factor in was that soon we would have a run-in with the enemy and Izzie’s first trip to Fenway would entail a baptism by fire.
We arrived in Connecticut just after 3:00 and easily found the apartment of my friend, Emmy, with the assistance of her hand-made Microsoft Word map. (Are you listening, Mapquest?) I had only heard about her new digs, so I couldn’t wait to see what she had done with the place. When we entered, she welcomed us with open arms, offered us a drink, and quickly directed our attention to the beautiful, round, mahogany table at the end of the room. As I inched closer, I saw that under the glass lay an image of Yankee Stadium. I came very close to losing my Burger King lunch. I knew we’d be going through Yankee country, but it never occurred to me that we’d have to depend upon the hospitality of the Evil Empire in order to pass go and collect our Red Sox tickets.
I really can’t blame Emmy for trying to get her licks in early. She was glad to lay out the red carpet for us, but she had to let us know in some small way that she was just as overjoyed about her home being used as a pitstop en route to Fenway as we were about resting our heads in a house of Steinbrenner.
Izzie, Emmy, and I playfully exchanged not-so-pleasantries about our teams for a few minutes, but we curtailed the rivalry when our neutral friend joined us for a girls’ night celebration. For several hours, we were able to co-exist happily, just drinking wine, laughing, and talking about everything but baseball.
But as I drifted off to sleep that night, surrounded by Yankees paraphernalia, the only thing I could think about was baseball, and how in a few short hours, I would finally be in Boston.
To be continued...
