Take Me Out to the Ball Game (and Back)

Take Me Out to the Ball Game (and Back)

A very nice guy by the name of Steve Whiteside bid and won a day of my time for a charity event, and flew down from Vancouver. He scored some special season tickets from a friend, and we went to the Red Sox game last night.

I was a Dodger fan (my shepherd is named Koufax, and his American Kennel Club registry is officially “Sanford van Koufax of Ebbets,” I kid you not). I’ve followed the Patriots and the Celtics (from the old glory days to the new), but I’ve never liked the Red Sox.

It took 2.5 hours to get from East Greenwich, RI to the seats in Fenway Park. I expected rush hour traffic, but not the insane small streets required to reach Fenway, which is in the middle of commercial and residential areas. Parking offers started a mile away, and it occurred to me I wasn’t going to get valet parking. As we moved closer, a gas station had jammed about 100 cars in, at $60 each, with the guys keeping the keys and moving everything around frantically.

So that was out.

As we got very close, Steve noticed a pharmacy parking lot, taken over by an entrepreneur, who was charging $35. I pulled in, and he quickly put a “sorry, filled” sign behind me.

“Can I lock this somewhere safe?” I asked.

“Follow me,” he said, and took us to a giant handicapped space that would have accommodated a Greyhound bus. It made sense, since being a Dodger fan at Fenway, you might say I was handicapped.

“How do we get to Gate D?” we asked. He told us to take an alley, go down some steps, and it was only 100 feet away. And it was!

We climbed four levels to a special seating area, through a restaurant, and took in the rest of the first inning, already in progress. The stadium is beautiful. It was packed (what recession?), and by the third inning, all the other late arrivals had filled every seat. Five veterans sitting next to us told us that a server would be along if we wanted to order some food, and helpfully gave us some menus stashed in the cup holders. This is not your father’s ball park—you can order salad and diet stuff.

“What are you going to have?” asked Steve.

“I’m looking for the sushi and finger sandwiches.”

The server finally arrived, a long-time, aged veteran of the section, whom the guys warned us would be unpleasant. She refused to come to our seats, so we had to shout our orders (for burgers and fries, I opted not to have the crepes at a ball game). I also asked for a beer, and she made funny hand gestures. I thought she was referring to size. I yelled “large.” She kept holding up her fingers.

“She carding you,” said the guys. “She needs ID.”

We will now all take a few moments to think about that request.

The guys said, “It’s a law. Everyone ordering alcohol must be carded.”

So I took out my license (I have not been carded in about 45 years) and held it up next to my head from 30 feet away. She chewed her gum and made a face. I had to go over to her, as the five guys stood up to let me pass. They were hysterical.

“Welcome to Massachusetts,” said one, “you’re not from around here!”

“I’m from a far and distant universe,” I mentioned.

The game was poorly played, but I’m reading a book about umpires so I watched their actions based on what I had learned. There are statistics on every imaginable surface of the ballpark, and a kibillion televisions replay everything notable near all the seats.

We left in the seventh inning with the Sox down 6-2 in a game they would go on to lose 9-2. I expected a zooming hour’s ride home, only to encounter the Massachusetts highway department taking I93 from four lanes to two for its entire length to fix about 20 yards of pavement.

The bad news: Heavy traffic, bureaucratic rules, home team lost.
The good news: Everyone but the server was polite and helpful (a guy at the gate actually wished us “good night” when we left), the stadium is beautiful and historic, I landed a great parking space, and the food was really pretty good.

And I got carded.

© Alan Weiss 2009. All rights reserved.