Red Sox Road Trip: Part 1

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...