The Fenway

I'm going to tell my Fenway story today. Before I do, let me say that I do not now and have not intended this blog to be about me and my life and my stories. I have come to view blogging like that as a bit self-indulgent and can't really admit to enjoying reading about what people do with their days. I do enjoy reading about peoples' ideas and opinions on certain topics, but free-form blogging has lost much of its appeal.

Then why am I, a self-loathing blogger, writing this for the Norwich Bulletin? It's simple, really. Instead of paying us to do this, the Bulletin has arranged for all of its bloggers to live together, "Real World"-style, in a big loft in downtown Norwich. Let me tell you, it's pretty sweet. A couple of insights into my fellow bloggers? Hackett eats nothing but yogurt, and snores, big time. Ryan the fitness guy will only listen to Queen's "Fat Bottom Girl" when he exercises. And I can't confirm this, but I think Brian the Gameaholic is a closet policy wonk. He's been playing SimAnt nonstop with his on-line pals "Scooter" and "Condi" for the last three days.

So despite my interest in centering the blog on the Red Sox, let me give you some insight into what Fenway means to me. I grew up in Milwaukee, a diehard Brewers fan. The Brewers of the late 1970's and early 1980's were actually worth cheering for. Ben Oglivie is still a favorite of mine. The infield of Ted Simmons, Cecil Cooper, Jimmy "Gumby" Gantner, Robin Yount, and Paul Molitor is still, for my money, one of the greatest modern infields. Simmons in particular is underappreciated- probably the best catcher not in the Hall of Fame, where of course he could join the already-enshrined Yount and Molitor.

Even as a Brewer-centric kid, though, I could appreciate the appeal of the Red Sox. I had a Jim Rice shirt that I wore all the time- so much so that one of the neighbors down the block took to calling me "Jim." This sorta makes sense, because, as you can tell from my picture on the Bulletin site, Jim Rice and I do look remarkably alike. I was also able to respect the great Sox outfields of that era, with Rice, Lynn, Armas, and Dewey striking fear into Brewers pitching whenever they visited town.

So it was with great excitement when my father announced that one stop on our East Coast vacation would be visiting my dad's cousin Jim in Boston, where we would take in a game at Fenway. My sisters and I all looked forward to that- well, those of us whose fontanelles had hardened up enough to be capable of abstract thought, anyway. The vacation started, we got to Jim's place, and had a nice visit. My dad's cousin Jim, by the way, used to be a male model, and in fact was featured on the original "Twister" game box. We always called him "Mr. Twister." We were clever kids.

The evening of the Sox game came, and we got set to head out to Fenway. Jim, however, could not find the tickets. After looking everywhere for nearly an hour, he found them, and off we went. It was game time as we cruised toward the stadium. Even in the early 80's, parking in Boston was no picnic. We drove around for 45 minutes looking for a spot. I don't know if the lots were full or someone refused to pay for parking, but there you have it. We kept driving. We finally found a spot about a mile away and we jogged the distance to Fenway. By this time, it was about the third inning, and most of the entrance gates were closed. We circled the stadium frantically until we found our way inside.

Fenway at last! I don't remember much about the inside of the stadium, but I do remember the green. The grass, the Monster- it was really vivid. We made our way up to our seats, and found some people sitting in them. After a short and somewhat curt discussion, we both agreed to pull out our tickets and see who was mistaken. Our tickets, as it turned out, were from the previous evening's game.

Since that moment, every complete and unmitigated disaster in planning for my family has become known as a "Fenway." For me, as a reformed Red Sox fan, that trip to Fenway has always been the one that got away. Tomorrow, however, my parents will be visiting from Milwaukee, and my father and I will attempt to reverse our own curse. Wish us luck.