Red Sox vs. Rangers July 1st

We had just gotten our last beer of the game, standing on top of the hand rails of a distant corner along the third baseline of Fenway Park. Sweet Caroline had just been played and I, like some high school kid at a concert, had held my phone up for my brother to share in the enjoyment. Gagne, his carer in limbo yet still Gagne, was finishing up an inning of middle relief for the Rangers. I wiped the smile off my face long enough to look over at my F.S. Player Kyle and mutter, "This is by far the best place of all." He looked back with an Irish twinkle of having full knowledge of what he was about to say, and responded, "Wicked Awesome, eh?"

But first, the beginning of the story.

Groggy from a house party in suburban Boston and still reeling from the fact that the 10 New England kids I was partying with busted out a drunken sing a long to Toby Keith and Brad Paisley ("I love this bahh"), I checked on tickets for Sunday's game. I had been worried that I was going to go seriously into debt for this one, since my hectic schedule and multitudes of distractions had only recently lent me time to figure out that Sox sell out far in advance. But there they were. Two standing room only seats for only 40 bucks each (matching my previous ticket high of the Dodgers--which included all you can eat ballpark food with the ticket).

Before the game, however, Kyle and I made the poor decision of letting ourselves shamelessly flirt with the waitress at breakfast for way too long. In our best decision to date, we stopped and picked up a bottle of bourbon (on a Sunday--take that The South) and proceeded to make the day into what I can only compare as a college Gameday. The weather on that July 1st day was crisp and cool (take that The South), and as we sipped our cocktails on the bus to the Train station, I got the phone call. The Red Sox had kicked off, and Stubhub closes at game time. Our laughing bus driver gave us a timetable of at least 45 minutes. Phone calls started flying as fast as my fibs to StubHub about our estimated time of arrival ("Just a little longer, I promise"). Cabs quickly proved not to be an option. My drink started to disappear at a rate inverse to my anxiousness, yet without the same endless supply--thankfully in hindsight. The Busdriver jumped onto team Ballparkquest, mumbling incomprehensible remarks about skipping bus stops in order to get us to the train station faster to the confused passengers fateful enough to be part of our mad dash. We attempted to buy more time, as our second deadline had passed, by making wild offers of bribes and money to the remaining Stubhub workers waiting on us. They, to their credit, hid their dissatisfaction with us well.

Hurrying and waiting. Hurrying and waiting. Hurrying onto the bus. Waiting at the train station. Hurrying onto the train. Waiting on the train. Hurrying out more lies on the phone. Waiting to see if they bought them. Hurrying off the train to the Stubhub office, and by the all that is good and right in the world of professionally scalped tickets, walking out of the into the streets of Boston, one hour past opening pitch, tickets in hand.

Kyle, aggravatingly calm during this entire storm, smiled and ushered me into Fenway. The bourbon, long since finished but just now starting, coupled with the waves of relief and victory of my tickets in hand, distracted me just long enough as I entered to make my first sight of Fenway overwhelming. 36,000 Bostonians, each one as passionate as an Alabama football fan, crammed into the stadium and onto the teams. I've snuck down to some incredible seats during my trip, but the view from the home plate aisle, still rows away from the front, was more intimate and intense than any other atmosphere in the majors. The sea of red is only broken by the Green Monster, the gigantic wall in left field. The true result of the Monstah isn't the wall, but the fact that that wall pushes the field of play into that much smaller an area. Manny Ramirez, the left fielder, was as close to me watching on the third base side as most dugout seats are to the dugout.

It was, as the kiddies say, on like Donkey Kong. Kyle proved to be a great F.S. player/drinking buddy/wing man, as the woman selling us beer(s) tried to set us up with her daughter again and again and again. Things quickly devolved to the lowest and oftentimes best degree of baseball enjoyment. Completely unaware of the specifics and intimacies of the game, cheering loudly and obnoxiously when alerted to by the crowd, starting conversations with people during their 5 seconds passing us by, watching the game with one eye and the other on the woman under dressed next to us, swaying on the handrails, without an opportunity or desire to sit for the entire game. It did turn out that there were, after all, seats available.

(An actual view from an obstructed view seat)

Even with missing the first hour of the game Fenway Park was the greatest park of them all. The greatest environment of all. Worth the money, the trip, the anxiety, the entire journey. Let your wife have the Champs-Élysées and Rodeo Drive. God gave us Fenway. May it never change.

Henry

During my last true night in New York City, I puppy sat for my friend Caroline. Forgiving her the poor decision to name her dog a person's name, Henry is by far the best dog ever to scurry across the face of the Earth. Not because of tricks, or affection, or intelligence. Because when I took him walking throughout the street of New York and the paths of Central Park, I met more women than I have ever randomly met collectively in my life. While my friends will argue that one woman is more than I've ever randomly met, the number in all honesty was nearing double digits in less than 2 hours. Considering that Henry's affable personality and comfort with being held led each conversation to be longer than a simple oohh and ahh, this blew my mind. The cliche-edness of the whole situation worked in my favor as well, actually becoming the initial conversation for some situations. I am very sad that I only attempted to exploit Henry on the last day of my time in New York. Should anyone want to rent him, let me know and I'll put you in touch with Caroline.

(He is a half Maltese half Chihuahua mix)

Yankees vs As June 29th

I finally made it to the Yankee Stadium, as the game was beginning after underestimating my knowledge of the Subway system, again. As I walked up person after person was leaving the Stadium talking of it being sold out. Luckily for me, the power of going to the game solo got me in, somehow. Little did I know that I wouldn't simply be watching the game, I would be immersed in the home of the Yankee Bleacher Creatures.
Bleacher creatures are the northern equivalent of Southern College football fans who never graduated high school. They are the most passionate fans because the team is not only representative of them, but the label which they define themselves as. The accents are different, the dress is different, and the chants are different, but it is all the same. The drunken high of chanting ridiculously inane cheers as part of a collective team of fans. Yankee Fans may be cheering for the winners, but I have a feeling that they'll never jump off the bandwagon.
While I was there I got to go near deaf from the nasal twine of Brooklyn accents comment on things that I couldn't decipher. This was during the free fall of the Yankees season, before the Yankees became the Yankees again. This was also during A-Rod's massive home run stretch, and I missed having him hit me a home run by 3 feet. What I didn't miss was the cheers serenading the Stadium from the Bleacher Creatures surrounding me. The Roll Call is a great tradition that should be spread to every ballpark in America. The other cheers are at best a little bawdy or, as I experienced, not exactly Politically Correct.

During the 6th inning, while the grounds crew is sweeping the dirt, Y.M.C.A. is played, with the grounds crews going through the motions with all the enthusiasm of a disgruntled Johnny Rocket's employee. The Bleacher Creatures, however, having been lying in wait for this moment, isolating and marking the presence of the opposing team's fans in the bleachers. When the moment comes, they pounce. Hands pumping in unified derisiveness, they point out the traitors in their midst. The old, young and weak are the first to crack. Some have been to these unfriendly confines before and are prepared. None are spared. The words of "Why are you Gay" spew forth from schoolmarms and Mafiosos alike, for here there are no vestiges of civility, nothing but Creatures. The younger ones mumble through the verses trying to remember them. The older ones lead the charge, pointing fervently, selecting their prey. With the outlawing of alcohol in the Bleachers, these Creatures' minds are sharp, and their words sharper. An alpha male emerges, his pointing more feverish than the rest, his words singing forth as if sung from the bowels of greatest opera singer of any generation. "Why are you Gay?" he implores, but not out of concern. Out of spite. The Oakland fans in attendance bow their heads in defeat. The alpha male turns back to his horde, the last lines of the song drowned out by the passing traffic. His smile does not linger, for before him stands the one enemy that no Bleacher Creature evades. His brethren give a mighty cheer as his destiny is fulfilled, to go out not as some shuffling fan dependent on the outcome of the game for his fulfillment, but as a fallen victor led from the Stadium by a cop.