Dejected Notes From A Ballgame
Last night I went to Fenway and saw a wretched facsimile of a ball game. It wasn't all terrible, but I might as well dispense with the bad first.
I was late. I hate being late for ballgames. But it wasn't to be helped because despite racing out of work I was stymied by the T. If I am in no particular hurry I will inevitably catch an express train to my station; if I am in a hurry I invariably wind up on the world's slowest train, graced with nearly stationary views from the Red Line tracks. The journey from Quincy Center to Kenmore cost me just about three full innings.
After arriving at the park and wading through long lines for the obligatory hotdogs and beer we headed to our seats. I passed a television showing no score in the bottom of the fourth and Wakefield was striking out the first O's batter as I turned up the ramp to the right field grandstands. So I sat down and was enjoying my Fenway Franks and Harp when Wake walked in a run. Things went downhill from there; the grandslam surrendered to Surhoff, the botched run down... all the way through Foulke adding to the mayhem. Bad pitching? Check. Bad defense? Check.
It's terrible to watch Wakefield struggle. Unlike Lowe, whose naked weakness on the mound fills me with contempt, I feel pity for Wake. He always tries, never simply packs it in out there like The Face, and never offers up lame excuses. As I've written before, I want him to do well; if any member of the team deserves success it's him. Some newspapers mentioned the crowd booing Wake. There were scattered boos, but I heard many more cries of 'Take Him Out!' and 'Get 'im Otta There!' I felt like the crowd was not mad at Wakefield but at Tito, but for leaving him in too long. Take him out. Have mercy.
But Fenway is still Fenway, the living beating heart of Red Sox Nation. Even when the Red Sox stink up the joint, I can't help but be happy there. Thousands of dead trees (or ones and zeros for the internet crowd) have been expended writing on the charms of Fenway. Suffice it to say that words fall short and you must experience it yourself to fully comprehend. For my part, while I don't ordinarily like crowds, I love the maelstrom of people at Fenway: the way the air seems so thick with jagged Boston accents that you might cut yourself on a stray verb; the way the array of Red Sox gear folks wear seems to become more colorful and riotous every year; the easy camaraderie with the strangers you find yourself sitting near. I laughed out loud at the young woman who jumped up on her seat and did an impromptu bump-and-grind during Sweet Caroline while her friend spanked her, much to the delight of the rows behind them. And I was touched by the scene that unfolded next to me on the T ride home: an older man, wearing a Red Sox hat so old that that the blue had faded to a near white, quietly going over his scorecard from the game with his son, whose colors were bright and new. Fenway people watching has something for everyone.
I'm going again on Wednesday. Those seats will be much better so hopefully I'll return with some pictures worth posting.
I was late. I hate being late for ballgames. But it wasn't to be helped because despite racing out of work I was stymied by the T. If I am in no particular hurry I will inevitably catch an express train to my station; if I am in a hurry I invariably wind up on the world's slowest train, graced with nearly stationary views from the Red Line tracks. The journey from Quincy Center to Kenmore cost me just about three full innings.
After arriving at the park and wading through long lines for the obligatory hotdogs and beer we headed to our seats. I passed a television showing no score in the bottom of the fourth and Wakefield was striking out the first O's batter as I turned up the ramp to the right field grandstands. So I sat down and was enjoying my Fenway Franks and Harp when Wake walked in a run. Things went downhill from there; the grandslam surrendered to Surhoff, the botched run down... all the way through Foulke adding to the mayhem. Bad pitching? Check. Bad defense? Check.
It's terrible to watch Wakefield struggle. Unlike Lowe, whose naked weakness on the mound fills me with contempt, I feel pity for Wake. He always tries, never simply packs it in out there like The Face, and never offers up lame excuses. As I've written before, I want him to do well; if any member of the team deserves success it's him. Some newspapers mentioned the crowd booing Wake. There were scattered boos, but I heard many more cries of 'Take Him Out!' and 'Get 'im Otta There!' I felt like the crowd was not mad at Wakefield but at Tito, but for leaving him in too long. Take him out. Have mercy.
But Fenway is still Fenway, the living beating heart of Red Sox Nation. Even when the Red Sox stink up the joint, I can't help but be happy there. Thousands of dead trees (or ones and zeros for the internet crowd) have been expended writing on the charms of Fenway. Suffice it to say that words fall short and you must experience it yourself to fully comprehend. For my part, while I don't ordinarily like crowds, I love the maelstrom of people at Fenway: the way the air seems so thick with jagged Boston accents that you might cut yourself on a stray verb; the way the array of Red Sox gear folks wear seems to become more colorful and riotous every year; the easy camaraderie with the strangers you find yourself sitting near. I laughed out loud at the young woman who jumped up on her seat and did an impromptu bump-and-grind during Sweet Caroline while her friend spanked her, much to the delight of the rows behind them. And I was touched by the scene that unfolded next to me on the T ride home: an older man, wearing a Red Sox hat so old that that the blue had faded to a near white, quietly going over his scorecard from the game with his son, whose colors were bright and new. Fenway people watching has something for everyone.
I'm going again on Wednesday. Those seats will be much better so hopefully I'll return with some pictures worth posting.
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