Red Sox Road Trip: Part 2

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...