Fenway At Last
Copyright 2007 by LeeZard
I know I'm not the first writer to be inspired by a visit to Boston's fabled Fenway Park, but I must tell you about my recent pilgrimage to that ancient ballyard. Even I was surprised at my emotional response.
I grew up in New York City. Yankee Stadium, with its huge crowds and vast outfield, was where I learned to love the game. For some reason though, I never had the opportunity to visit Beantown so I used the excuse of a recent business convention in Boston to visit Fenway. It didn't matter that I've always hated the Red Sox; as a baseball fan, I've always respected their great players. And, I wanted to see the stadium before its renovation.
Even though the team was on the road, I was told if you're lucky, you can talk the security guard at the service gate into letting you in for a peek. It would have been nice to see a game, but I wanted to see Fenway--to worship at the shrine of that storied leftfield wall, "The Green Monster," and to soak up all those years of baseball history. Of course, I had to find the place first.
Have you ever asked a Bostonian for directions? Famed for their spare use of the English language, getting a Yankee (New England, not New York) to help you find someplace is an adventure. For one thing, you need an interpreter.
I asked four different people how to get to Fenway by subway and received four different sets of directions. The first failed to mention that I had to change trains. Another gave directions in such thick Bostonese that I simply nodded politely and tried to read the subway wall map to figure out what he said. It's not that the people of Boston are rude, or unwilling to help, it's just that they hate to waste words the way Scrooge hated to spend a dollar.
Finally, standing in Kenmore Station, with nary a sign indicating that this was, indeed, the stop for Fenway Park, I asked for directions once more. This time, swallowing the feelings of foolishness that come with being a lost out-of-towner, I asked for a repeat of the directions three times. Still, the only thing I caught was, "turn left and it's this big green thing." After some aimless wandering I finally found it and, yes, it is a big green thing and, from the outside, it is an ugly big green thing.
The stadium is bordered on one side by Lansdowne Street. It is a littered, downtrodden little side street. Hardly the stuff of boyhood baseball dreams. I walked around to Yawkey Way where the main and service entrances are located. Luckily the service garage-type door was open, so I puffed up my confidence and approached the stern looking white-haired security guard sitting in a small shack just inside the entrance.
"Hi. I just traveled more than 3,000 miles to see Fenway Park-you gotta let me in." He looked me up and down with a practiced eye that said I've heard this a zillion times before.
"We don't nawmally let people in," he said slowly, dragging out the “naw” in nawmally. He looked me over again while he considered my worthiness. But the baseball gods were smiling on me that day because finally he jerked his head toward the field and snapped, "go up that ramp; don't turn left; don't turn right; don't stay long."
I was in--and they would have to pick me up and throw me out before I had my fill. I thought as I walked up the ramp that I'd be standing somewhere in the outfield but to my utter surprise and delight, there I was just 20 rows behind home plate. I didn't turn left and I didn't turn right; I just stood there and let the magic of Fenway take over.
At first, Fenway Park feels and looks amazingly small. Heck, it is small--often referred to as a bandbox because of its 33,502 capacity and the fans' intimate seating relationship with the playing field. That intimacy creates an optical illusion; at first it doesn't look big enough to be a major league ballpark. But then, the immensity of Fenway starts to sink in-the immensity that is its history.
After a few minutes I broke the security guard's rules. I turned right and sat down halfway up the first base line to take it all in--the asymmetrical, quirky angles in the outfield, the old hand-operated scoreboard and that famous left field wall which is much larger (37 feet high, stretching from the foul pole to left-center field) than it looks on TV.
I closed my eyes to smell the grass (baseball field grass seems to have an aroma all of its own) and commune with the ghosts of Fenway. When I opened my eyes the stands were full and there was the Johnny Pesky loping around the bases after wrapping one around “The Pesky Pole,” Dom DiMaggio legging out a double, Ted Williams, "The Splendid Splinter," swinging his remarkably fluid swing and Yaz patrolling the outfield. It was hauntingly quiet and beautiful and my young boy's baseball heart filled with joy.
It was at this moment of supreme pleasure that the security guard ambled up the ramp, looking left and looking right as if he knew I'd broken his edict. He spotted me and his sharp words pierced my reverie, "Ya gotta go soon." I sat a few moments more, enjoying the look and feel of this hallowed piece of baseball ground.
As I walked out the gate, my good-bye wave and thanks to the guard were met by a stony silence and I heard the metal garage door begin to rumble down behind me. Suddenly, a figure darted across the street and ducked under the closing door. I walked back to
listen.
"Say, I just flew in from Denver and I've got to see Fenway Park." I didn't hear the response, but a downtrodden and disappointed Denverite quickly emerged as the garage door
completed its downward journey.
I smiled a warm inward smile at my good fortune and felt only a small twinge of sympathy for the spurned Fenway pilgrim from Denver. Feeling rather smug and eschewing the subway, I walked all the way back to my hotel. Somewhere, someone started whistling "Take Me Out to the Ballgame." It was me.
I know I'm not the first writer to be inspired by a visit to Boston's fabled Fenway Park, but I must tell you about my recent pilgrimage to that ancient ballyard. Even I was surprised at my emotional response.
I grew up in New York City. Yankee Stadium, with its huge crowds and vast outfield, was where I learned to love the game. For some reason though, I never had the opportunity to visit Beantown so I used the excuse of a recent business convention in Boston to visit Fenway. It didn't matter that I've always hated the Red Sox; as a baseball fan, I've always respected their great players. And, I wanted to see the stadium before its renovation.
Even though the team was on the road, I was told if you're lucky, you can talk the security guard at the service gate into letting you in for a peek. It would have been nice to see a game, but I wanted to see Fenway--to worship at the shrine of that storied leftfield wall, "The Green Monster," and to soak up all those years of baseball history. Of course, I had to find the place first.
Have you ever asked a Bostonian for directions? Famed for their spare use of the English language, getting a Yankee (New England, not New York) to help you find someplace is an adventure. For one thing, you need an interpreter.
I asked four different people how to get to Fenway by subway and received four different sets of directions. The first failed to mention that I had to change trains. Another gave directions in such thick Bostonese that I simply nodded politely and tried to read the subway wall map to figure out what he said. It's not that the people of Boston are rude, or unwilling to help, it's just that they hate to waste words the way Scrooge hated to spend a dollar.
Finally, standing in Kenmore Station, with nary a sign indicating that this was, indeed, the stop for Fenway Park, I asked for directions once more. This time, swallowing the feelings of foolishness that come with being a lost out-of-towner, I asked for a repeat of the directions three times. Still, the only thing I caught was, "turn left and it's this big green thing." After some aimless wandering I finally found it and, yes, it is a big green thing and, from the outside, it is an ugly big green thing.
The stadium is bordered on one side by Lansdowne Street. It is a littered, downtrodden little side street. Hardly the stuff of boyhood baseball dreams. I walked around to Yawkey Way where the main and service entrances are located. Luckily the service garage-type door was open, so I puffed up my confidence and approached the stern looking white-haired security guard sitting in a small shack just inside the entrance.
"Hi. I just traveled more than 3,000 miles to see Fenway Park-you gotta let me in." He looked me up and down with a practiced eye that said I've heard this a zillion times before.
"We don't nawmally let people in," he said slowly, dragging out the “naw” in nawmally. He looked me over again while he considered my worthiness. But the baseball gods were smiling on me that day because finally he jerked his head toward the field and snapped, "go up that ramp; don't turn left; don't turn right; don't stay long."
I was in--and they would have to pick me up and throw me out before I had my fill. I thought as I walked up the ramp that I'd be standing somewhere in the outfield but to my utter surprise and delight, there I was just 20 rows behind home plate. I didn't turn left and I didn't turn right; I just stood there and let the magic of Fenway take over.
At first, Fenway Park feels and looks amazingly small. Heck, it is small--often referred to as a bandbox because of its 33,502 capacity and the fans' intimate seating relationship with the playing field. That intimacy creates an optical illusion; at first it doesn't look big enough to be a major league ballpark. But then, the immensity of Fenway starts to sink in-the immensity that is its history.
After a few minutes I broke the security guard's rules. I turned right and sat down halfway up the first base line to take it all in--the asymmetrical, quirky angles in the outfield, the old hand-operated scoreboard and that famous left field wall which is much larger (37 feet high, stretching from the foul pole to left-center field) than it looks on TV.
I closed my eyes to smell the grass (baseball field grass seems to have an aroma all of its own) and commune with the ghosts of Fenway. When I opened my eyes the stands were full and there was the Johnny Pesky loping around the bases after wrapping one around “The Pesky Pole,” Dom DiMaggio legging out a double, Ted Williams, "The Splendid Splinter," swinging his remarkably fluid swing and Yaz patrolling the outfield. It was hauntingly quiet and beautiful and my young boy's baseball heart filled with joy.
It was at this moment of supreme pleasure that the security guard ambled up the ramp, looking left and looking right as if he knew I'd broken his edict. He spotted me and his sharp words pierced my reverie, "Ya gotta go soon." I sat a few moments more, enjoying the look and feel of this hallowed piece of baseball ground.
As I walked out the gate, my good-bye wave and thanks to the guard were met by a stony silence and I heard the metal garage door begin to rumble down behind me. Suddenly, a figure darted across the street and ducked under the closing door. I walked back to
listen.
"Say, I just flew in from Denver and I've got to see Fenway Park." I didn't hear the response, but a downtrodden and disappointed Denverite quickly emerged as the garage door
completed its downward journey.
I smiled a warm inward smile at my good fortune and felt only a small twinge of sympathy for the spurned Fenway pilgrim from Denver. Feeling rather smug and eschewing the subway, I walked all the way back to my hotel. Somewhere, someone started whistling "Take Me Out to the Ballgame." It was me.
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