Behind Enemy Lines

On Sunday, a lifelong Yankee fan spent an afternoon at Fenway Park. He enjoyed the baseball, reflected upon the environment, and avoided any physical altercations, all while keeping a running diary of the events.

Over the weekend, Karen and I drove up to Boston to partake in her aunt and uncle’s joint 50^th birthday celebration. Friday night, we reconnected with friends that we don’t get to see too often. In doing so, we traveled to Jillian’s—a bar right across from Fenway. It was fantastic. The drinks were inexpensive. There was a ton of room in the place, and pool tables stretched as far as the eye could see. Over the past few years, I’ve traveled to Boston a couple of times, both for school trips and with Karen, and something troubling has dawned on me. These days, not a lot separates a Red Sox fan from a Yankees fan (besides tens of world championships). The organizations both focus upon their rich traditions and histories, capitalize on their name brand status, and rely upon a rich fan-base that is both incredibly knowledgeable about the game and passionate about the team.

A few years ago, DC Comics released a story based on an interesting premise. Basically, what would happen if the Kents got a flat tire on the night that Superman’s spaceship landed in Kansas? Ultimately, the world turns out vastly different. Lex Luthor becomes a beloved president whose celebrity falls second only to JFK’s. Batman grows into a sociopathic criminal. Jimmy Olsen evolves into the super powered villain of the story. Oh, and Superman is raised in Amish country. In that universe or in another life, I could see myself as a Red Sox fan. Maybe all that’s necessary is a nail in the road causing a flat tire.

On Sunday, Karen and I used Aunt Francie and Uncle Bob’s tickets to watch the Red Sox battle the Blue Jays. At Karen’s request and in order to avoid an Elaine situation, where she wore an Orioles hat in the owners box at a Yankee game, I adopted four goals for the afternoon: to root against the Sox as quietly and graciously as possible, to quietly cheer for the Jays and the Yankees via the manual scoreboard at the base of the Green Monster, to avoid any severe incidences that might lead to ejections or angry mobs armed with torches and pitch forks, and to keep a running diary of the afternoon.

12:52 pm- Francie and Bob drop us off a few blocks away from Yawkey Way. The drive from their house to the stadium took about 25 minutes. That commute surely beats the hour on Metro North and the half hour on the 4 train it takes to get to Yankee Stadium. The bumper to bumper traffic on the Van Wyck cannot even hold a candle to the peaceful drive we experienced coming into downtown Boston.

As a quick aside, on the way, we took a quick detour and passed some houses of Boston sports stars. That is the kind of Boston sports fans Francie and Bob are. Francie not only knows the strikeout to walk ratio Daisuke Matsuzaka posted in June, she also knows his birthday by heart. They have decorated their house with Fatheads of Tom Brady and David Ortiz. Perhaps the one that worries me the most is the Fathead they have in the bathroom of Youkilis brushing his teeth. I am assured that the Teddy Bruschi taking out the trash is on order and soon to arrive.

12:55 pm- As tempting as the souvenir and concession stands on Yawkey Way may be, Karen and I opt to go straight into the park. We head to our seats. We find our progress consistently halted by incredibly slow walkers outfitted entirely in Sox gear. So far, my camouflage of a baseball T-shirt and a St. Louis Browns hat has them all fooled. Hopefully, I won’t slip up and alert the masses to my presence.

1:00 pm- We find our seats. Located in the loge box, one step up from field level, right down the first base line, they are fantastic. However, things are a little cramped. Due to its age, Fenway Park is a small stadium that does not hold more than 40,000 people. Even to accommodate that many, they have had to cram as many seats as possible into as many nooks and crannies as possible. As a result, not all seats angle their occupant towards home plate.

My seat points directly at the left field foul pole. Between the slow walking, the cramped seats, and the opposing fans; I can’t decide if the park feels like a cozy and nostalgic house or prison.

Karen adds: They all are wearing too much red. They’re clearly Communists.

1:04 pm- I let the history of the park wash over me. There have been very little changes made to Fenway since the likes of Ted Williams and Carl Yastrzemski roamed left field. It has stood since 1912, edging Chicago’s Wrigley Field as the oldest ballpark by two years. Fenway just feels different than most stadiums. As much as I can’t stand the Sox, I hope they never tear this place down.

1:07 pm- The Fenway announcer declares Fenway “America’s most beloved ballpark.” He then goes on to say something about the “World Champion Boston Red Sox.” All the good will I had for the city of Boston disappears. I fight the urge to light myself on fire.

1:27 pm- Karen and I exchange photo opportunities (with the field in the background) with a Japanese father and son sitting in front of us. After trading cameras and thank yous, he tells us his young son’s name is “Daisuke.”

I would have thought Dice-K would have been taller, and I can’t believe the Red Sox let him sit in the stands during the game. Discipline in Boston must be severely lacking.

1:31 pm- Four minutes to game time and the umpires meet at home plate to go over the ground rules. I always wonder what they talk about in major league parks. The fields are self contained. Anything not in the stands is in play. There’s no need for, “Well, if the ball hits the ice cream truck on a fly it’s a home run. And if it rolls down the hill, it’s all you can get until it reaches the duck pond. At that point, let’s just call it a double.”

1:35 pm- The Red Sox take the field. Josh Beckett strolls to the mound. For the season, Beckett has won 11 and lost 8. He has a 3.92 ERA. I get the feeling he’s just waiting for the postseason. At that point, he will throw up a negative ERA. In order to score one run off Beckett, three opponents have to cross the plate.

1:49 pm- After striking out the lead-off hitter, Inglett, Beckett loads the bases by allowing a single, a double, and a walk. Adam Lind lines a base hit into left field, which Jason Bay misplays. Two runs score. I make no noise, but subtly give a Tiger Woodsian fist pump.

1:50 pm- Beckett hits Barajas to reload the bases. I like where this is going…

1:53 pm- Overbay singles to right. The Blue Jays lead 4-0. I look up at the out of town scoreboard. The Yankees lead Kansas City 6-3. Cue the restrained dancing. Karen and I exchange a high five that does not reach higher than the back of our seats. Hopefully, we haven’t just blown our cover.

1:54 pm- Wilkerson hits a groundball to first. This is clearly a double play ball and Beckett has worked his way out of the inning. Oh wait! Youkilis flubs it. He can only pick the ball up and record the force out at first. If things really are meant to go my way this afternoon, the Jays will make the Sox pay for that mistake.

1:56 pm- The baseball gods answer my prayers. John McDonald hits a bases clearing double. Red Sox Nation becomes a little more restless. I hear some boos. The Blue Jays lead 6-0. In my mind’s eye, partiers do the twist.

2:00 pm- Lead-off hitter Joe Inglett bounces out to short. As we head to the bottom of the first, Beckett has thrown 36 pitches and allowed six runs on five hits.

2:02 pm- Jacoby Ellsbury singles. Dustin Pedroia takes his stance in the right handed batter’s box. David Ortiz moves into the on-deck circle. Ortiz is monstrous. He is one of the few athletes that has reached “larger than life” status. He’s known for so much more than his bombs into the right field seats. His incredible stature combined with his effervescent personality and the pure joy he obviously carries with him on a daily basis have allowed him to transcend his sport.

The only contemporary athlete I can compare Ortiz to is Shaq. Like Shaq, nobody knows Ortiz by his name, they know him as “Big Papi.” Between 2004 and 2007, he was so dominant in pressure situations that his success in those moments seemed almost predetermined. In a sport that is slowly trying to claw its way out from under one of its history’s darker shadows, Big Papi has continued to shine bright. There is a reason why his face is plastered all over the Boston area and most preseason MLB publications. His talent is only part of the equation.

2:10 pm- Pedroia hits into a double play. Ortiz walks. Toronto starter Shawn Marcum (3.42 ERA; 7-5) strikes out Kevin Youkilis. I notice that the Yankees have taken a 10-3 lead. I rejoice silently.

I have to say, the manual scoreboard at the base of the Green Monster is one of the coolest amenities in the league. These days, everyone spends their time waxing nostalgic about the past. They talk longingly about retro architecture and throwback jerseys. Meanwhile, this scoreboard has stood for almost 100 years. It has born witness to almost 100 seasons, and yet, nobody pays enough attention to it. Years ago, Boston could have replaced it with a state-of-art plasma screen. But they didn’t, and for that the Red Sox organization has my undying praise. Without that scoreboard, the Green Monster would just be a tall green wall that ruined pitchers’ ERAs. The scoreboard gives it character, a sense of history, a soul.

2:15 pm- I return from the men’s room. No altercations occurred. My cover still seems to play. I consider myself fortunate that I’m not watching a Boston-New York game. If the Red Sox were losing by six in the second against the Yankees, someone would have followed me into the bathroom and cracked my head open against a urinal.

Aunt Francie texts Karen: “Did you put a curse on Josh Beckett?”

I can only hope.

2:16 pm- A visibly pregnant woman emerges from the entrance tunnel with a beer in her hand.

Karen: She shouldn’t be drinking that! AND her husband shouldn’t be sending her to get beer!

2:19 pm- J.D. Drew walks. I notice that to the right of the screen, which displays the batter’s headshot, a second scoreboard reads, “Score that play: base on balls.” Thank God for that screen, otherwise I would not have known how describe the play where Drew took a fourth ball and WALKED to first base. I am giddy at the discovery of the Score that Play screen. By my calculations, the chances that it becomes a running joke shatter 100%.

2:26 pm- The Sox half of the inning ends as Alex Cora lines to center field. Vernon Wells, just off the DL, makes a sliding catch, pops up, and fires a strike to second base, doubling off J.D. Drew. If I still kept score at all the games I attended live, I would have put a star next to that play.

2:28 pm- Adam Lind, who already has an RBI, homers into the right field seats. The scoreboard tells me to Score that Play: Homerun. Brilliant, I love it.

2:30 pm- It’s the second time through the order for the Blue Jays. That means it’s time for everybody’s favorite segment: Obscure information on the scoreboard. Apparently due to its immense relevance to his present at-bat, we learn that Rod Barajas “played with Schilling on the 2001 World Champion Diamondbacks.” The information doesn’t help Barajas. He strikes out.

2:32 pm- Not even an hour into the ball game and Beckett reaches the end of the line. He hands the ball to Francona and exits, responsible for the man on second. Beckett’s line: 2.1 IP, 8 H, 8 ER, 1 BB, 3 K. Not an impressive showing for Josh Beckett.

Francona calls on David Aardsma, who’s best known for unseating Hank Aaron atop the alphabetical listing of baseball players. This game has all the makings of a four-and-a-half hour marathon.

2:50 pm- I make my first trip to the concession stands. Earlier, Karen found a Dunkin’ Donuts, returned to her seat, and remarked, “These people are SO much nicer. There aren’t any crazy people behind the counter shrieking ‘no sausages!’” As I wander through the concourse, I am shocked by the variety and availability of many different types of food. I am surrounded by grills, delis, traditional ball park fare, and pizza stands.

This is one area where I find Yankee Stadium sorely lacking. While you can find places that serve sandwiches, pizza, and even Chinese food, it takes a certain amount of effort. Most times, unless you really have a craving for and a desire to search out a burger or a slice of pizza, in the Bronx, you settle for a dog or an Italian sausage. Here, everything you want is easily accessible.

Despite all that, Terence Mann’s soliloquy from Field of Dreams races through my head: “I want them to stop looking to me for answers, begging me to speak again, write again, be a leader. I want them to start thinking for themselves. I want my privacy.” I follow his lead and order a dog and a beer.

2:55 pm- Back at my seat, I bite into a Fenway Frank. It tastes like…hot dog.

Karen: It has a different bun than at home.
Me: Sure does.

3:06 pm- The people around us seem to be resigned to their fate. We’re in the middle of the fourth and the Red Sox trail 9-0. The atmosphere has shifted from folks looking for an exciting and compelling game, to people taking advantage of the opportunity to be outside on a beautiful Sunday afternoon. The game will soon be relegated to the background as people focus on their conversations and entertainment. I predict many more beers will be sold before the day is over.

3:12 pm- Jeff Bailey hits for J.D. Drew. Two things: 1) Who is Jeff Bailey? 2) J.D. Drew suffered from “back tightness.” If there is one thing J.D. Drew is known for, it’s his back’s tendency to tighten up. When people draft him on their fantasy teams, I always wonder if his chiropractor is included in the deal.

3:22 pm- Cora singles to load the bases. The Red Sox show a little life. The crowd starts to get behind them. Rhythmic clapping ensues. Karen shoves her arms to her sides, and says, “I will not participate.”

So far, Karen has turned in an All-Star level performance.

3:28 pm- Jason Varitek raps into a 4-6-3 double play. The inning ends with the Sox having only scored off of a lead-off homer by Youkilis. The entire stadium deflates.

Guy in the row behind me: I just don’t care anymore!

I’m loving Fenway Park.

3:30 pm- Karen grabs a bag of cotton candy. I taste some. I write in my notebook: “I hate cotton candy.”

3:34 pm- The Obscure Information Board informs us that it is Dustin Pedroia’s 25^th Birthday today.

3:36 pm- Pedroia grounds out to short.

Karen: Happy Birthday, b—h!

With that, her performance moves into a level on par with Doc Gooden’s no-hitter.

3:51 pm- I’m only half paying attention to the game at this point. The Sox are losing by a lot, the Yankees are winning by a lot. I’m pretty content. John McDonald steps to the plate.

Little girl behind me: His name is John—like a boy in my class.

4:02 pm- Jed Lowrie triples off the center field wall. Jeff Bailey scores. Boston trails 11-2. Fenway erupts. I repeat, the score is Blue Jays: 11, Red Sox: 2.

4:12 pm- We reach the seventh inning stretch. Toronto leads 12-2. They have 17 hits and have scored in every inning except the top of the second.

The Fenway organist plays “God Bless America.” At this point, I am always unsure as to what to do with my hat. I know I take it off for the National Anthem. I know my head should be uncovered for the moment of silent prayer for our troops serving around the world. But, at Fenway, there’s no silent prayer, just “God Bless America.” Some remove their hats. Some don’t. Today, I opt to keep the hat on my head. I apologize if I disrespected anyone.

4:18 pm- Boredom has completely overtaken the ballpark. Cue the wave. I hate the wave. It makes it around Fenway a few times, despite the fact that Karen and I refuse to get out of our seats.

Pedroia homers. Apparently a successful wave carries a little more juice in Massachusetts than it does in New York.

4:24 pm- The seventh inning ends. Most people head for the exits.

4:35 pm- The Blue Jays now lead 15-3. Karen and I move down to the field boxes just past the first base dugout. In Yankee Stadium, ushers violently guard those premium field boxes until the final out has been recorded. Not in Boston. Had we so desired, we could have moved down to these seats after Clay Bucholz replaced 702 year-old Mike Timlin in the top of the sixth.

4:40 pm- Neil Diamond’s “Sweet Caroline” blares over the Fenway speakers. Ever wonder how the entire Red Sox Nation seems to know the words to this song? They post the lyrics on the Score that Play scoreboard! Fenway just became a 37,000 person Karaoke bar.

Remember how I described the Red Sox fans as knowledgeable and passionate? Between the Score that Play scoreboard and the Neil Diamond karaoke, I’m beginning to rethink this description.

4:47 pm- Papelbon enters the game to the music of the Dropkick Murphys. Without the soundtracks of EA’s MVP Baseball and The Departed, would any of us ever have heard of the Dropkick Murphys? These types of thoughts keep me up at night.

4:55 pm- Papelbon works a perfect ninth, striking out two. He’s really good. In a situation where he came in to only get in a little work, he made three major league hitter look terrible. Like him or not, he’s one of the best in the game.

5:00 pm- Kevin Cash bats in the bottom of the ninth against B.J. Ryan. The Obscure Information Board tells us that Kevin Cash was an All-Star in the Cape Cod League, which leads to this exchange:

Me: Do you think he’s friends with Freddy Prinze Jr. from Summer Catch?
Karen: Yeah, and Matthew Lillard.
Me: What about Brian Dennehy?
Karen: Didn’t Brian Dennehy die recently? Or am I just thinking about his character in Tommy Boy?

We exit the stadium content. The Red Sox lost. The Yankees won. We ate. We drank. We engaged in merriment.

Ultimately, this was a great day. I loved Fenway. If I lived in Boston, I would go to games there as often as possible. Knowing that Yankee Stadium will be gone by next season, I’m at least mildly calmed by the knowledge that Fenway isn’t going anywhere.

By the way, we didn’t suffer any flat tires.