On the eve of another baseball road-trip, memories of its
origin come to mind. Though it seemed like just yesterday, seven years ago
Mr. Clutch had one of those eventful, round number anniversaries of birth.
Technical you only have one “Birthday” which is your date of birth. When that
dates rolls around from year to year it’s the anniversary of that event, thus
the use of that term when referencing the date back in 2009. It was a good
year, though from a depression perspective a time when one starts to officially
feel “Old”. The number of the anniversary will remain unknown. The question is
begged of why we celebrate these things anyway. Is it because we “Made it”
another year? Sounds like an archaic ritual.
The idea popped up of taking a baseball weekend road trip
with some old childhood friends who were around close to the actual birthday.
Little was it known that the celebratory activity would spin into an annual
event. Mr. Clutch and three amigos headed up to Boston to watch the rematch of
the Mets and the Red Sox. It was the first time they were to play each other
since the bulls locked horns in Flushing those cold 1986 nights in October. Mr.
Clutch saw those games too – 23 years earlier. This time the Mets were on the
road, playing at the iconic Fenway Park.
If you are a baseball fan, or play one on TV, there are
at least two stadiums you need to see in up close and personal. The place we
were embarking too and of course the immortal Wrigley field. The experience of
watching a baseball game, regardless of who were playing and/or the outcome is
a must for any bucket list. These places look, feel, sound and smell just like
you think it would: An old-school ballpark.
First there is the fact that Fenway is one of the best
“Walk-up” stadiums around. Before even getting within a football field distance
of the place the aroma was simply delicious. No big modern everlasting parking
lots, industrial building surrounds or empty open pitted areas leading to the
stadium like most of the others. Instead on foot you follow the rest of the
livestock on the way home. While walking through the neighborhood streets the
views of baseball jerseys and earshot listening of baseball chatter went on for
blocks and blocks. It was two hours plus before the game and all the attendees
had already long forgot their life problems and were locked in and focused on
one thing which was that night’s game.
The pre-game ritual of hanging out on the street behind
the stadium was just awesome. Blocked off for ticket-holders only, it was the
party before the party. Beer was flowing, dead pig on a grill was being consumed
and Boston’s version of Mardi Gras was in full swing. There and then the
pastime feel continued to intensify. Because it was slightly more than your
average weekend series with the “Rematch” over two decades in the making, there
was some additional television reporters and press on the scene. One of the
Clutch entourage was actually interviewed for the local news.
The seats were field level behind home plate. The actual
seats themselves were narrow, wood, uncomfortable and phenomenal all at once.
It was quickly noticed that most of the fans in the surrounding area actual
knew each other. Sure the concept of the “Season ticket” is an old one, but
it’s rare to actually see it being executed on that level. It was clear that
these people actually committed 81 days or nights to come hang out with their game
day friends. Though the Clutch posse was on foreign turf sitting around the
enemy, everyone was just fans of the sport that night. Friendly folks and pure
fans of the game filled in the entire stadium.
The Mets won that night courtesy of Johan Santana’s arm
and a collaborative effort with the team bats. It was a great night of
baseball, with the gang sucking in every moment that the ballpark afforded. It
was the perfect night of baseball with the slight exception of Ramon Martinez
making two errors at SS. Oh how many missed the days of the sure-gloved Rey
Ordonez, or even Frank Taveras. Here’s one interesting factoid on Ordonez, who
was certainly one of the best defensive middle infielders of his day; he would
never oil up or break in his glove. This was because he never actually “Caught”
the ball in his glove, meaning close the glove with the ball in it. He would
use the glove to “Stop” the ball and then transfer it out in a quick and
seamless motion.
The walk from the ballpark back to the hotel after the
game brought about clearly the funniest moment of the weekend. As all the
dejected Sox fans passed the first hotel closest to the stadium, a bunch of Met
fans were up in their room on the third floor with a window facing the street.
Next would be something that is classic New York style, and would only really
be expected by fans of that ilk. A guest yelled something along the lines of
“Hey Red Sox fans”, and then cordially mooned the entire city of Boston out the
window. Yes, exposed buttocks out with the big dipper and other stars of the
night. It would be considered juvenile to most, but pure comedy gold to others.
The next morning featured a tour of the stadium. This
included seeing the HOF area, Green Monster, Budweiser porch and all the other
ins and outs of this baseball shrine. The tour was given by and old guy who was
likely doing it for 30 years and probably worked at Fenway as a kid 30 years
before that selling peanuts for .5 cents a pop. He knew the history of the team
and explained it flawlessly. The story of Babe Ruth going across the street for
a beer during a game was quiet interesting, though possible a fable at best.
What a weekend and way to celebrate a round number anniversary of birth!
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