The following will recount my recent pilgrimage to the Mecca of Red Sox Nation: Fenway Park. This is a trip I try to make a few times every baseball season. While my experiences probably vary from others, this is meant as an account of the sights and sounds you would see at what John Updike called "a lyrical little bandbox of a ballpark." For those who have made the trip to Fenway for a ballgame, hopefully this will rekindle a bit of the special feeling you get while there. For those who have never stepped foot on its hallowed grounds, hopefully this will inspire you to see Fenway before they decide to tear it down.
I must begin with a disclaimer, saying that I am a bit of a traditionalist and am prone to nostalgia. In many areas, I am very resistant to change: this includes baseball. To me, Fenway represents an earlier era. At Fenway you will watch a ballgame in much the same way fans watched when it was built in 1912. Thus, if you expect 21st century amenities like clean bathrooms, leg room and gourmet food, Fenway may disappoint.
The experience begins, for the majority of people, on the subway, or as we call it in Boston "The T." On a game night, the Green Line to Kenmore Square will be a little more crowded than usual. The telltale sign, however, is the abundance of people in Red Sox hats and shirts. Many of these folks will carry in their hands the sports section of the Globe or the Herald, looking at the latest standings or the night's pitching match-up.
In many cases this will provoke conversations between two absolute strangers about the latest Sox gossip. This may run the gamut from the latest controversy over a Jimmy Williams managerial call to commenting on who has a hot hand and should be starting tonight.
When you get off the train at Kenmore Station, you join the throng of people all there to see one thing " the Red Sox. As you emerge from the grim depths of subterranean Boston, the first thing that hits you is the cacophony you hear. This isn't just the normal sounds of cars and pedestrians you would hear anytime, but one particular to Red Sox games. As soon as you reach the street you are bombarded by the ticket scalpers practicing the rawest form of capitalism: "Buyin', sellin.' Anybody got a ticket? Need a ticket?" "Anybody got two? Need two." The young guys in the Red sox shirts and heavy Boston accents seem to be oblivious to the fact that their practice is illegal, that is until one of Boston's finest makes his rounds and the scalpers head for safer and more profitable grounds.
As you turn the corner and cross the bridge over the Mass Turnpike you will see another group of entrepreneurs: the hawkers. People are selling programs, hats, and all other sorts of cheap souvenirs. The most prevalent of these are the people selling "Yankees Suck" paraphernalia. You can buy t-shirts, hats and stickers to exhibit your feelings about the hated Bronx Bombers. Who knew that a cottage trade could emerge out of 83 years of disappointment for Red Sox partisans and hatred for the successful Yankees?
As the stadium comes into view, the first thing that hits you is the smell. The sound of "Peanuts! Pistacchios! Cracker Jacks!" and "Step right up and get your sausage here!" fills the air. On Yawkey Way you can purchase anything from hot dogs to baseball cards to replica Nomar shades for $5. Next stop: inside Fenway.
As you enter the ancient turnstiles, you notice the smell first. It is the distinct smell of stale beer and peanuts that you swear could have come from decades ago. When you finally climb up the stairs, it hits you: an abundance of green. The field itself is an absolute gem. The contrast with its surroundings in the grimy Fens makes it even more beautiful. The grass is cut to exacting standards, the infield is perfectly raked and the lime down the lines is impeccable. If you are sitting in the box seats an attendant will lead you to your seats and wipe them down for you. Many of these guys have worked at Fenway for decades, and have seen all the greats from Teddy to Yaz to Nomar. They are among the greatest fonts of Red Sox lore available. If you don't have the money to shell out for the good seats, you make the trek up the stairs in the bleachers as I have done many a time.
The seats themselves are the remnants of an earlier time. The one thing you realize is that the average person at the turn of the century must have been very small. Leg room is nonexistent, and inevitably there will be a 300-pound man in the seat next to you. Pity yourself if you need to get up to make a run to the concession stand.
Inside the ballpark there is a plethora of sites and sounds. You notice the famous 33-foot tall Green Monster and the hand-operated scoreboard on it. You see Pesky's pole down the right-field line. There is the joy in a children's eyes as their parents bring them to their first ballgame and they cheer on their favorite Sox. There is the constant barrage from the hawkers walking up and down the aisles with their goods.
All your senses have been engaged, and the first pitch hasn't even been thrown yet.