Fenway.

If you’re like me, there are few things you remember from your childhood as well, and with as many senses, as your trips to the ballpark as a kid. My dad tells me that we didn’t go all that often, but the way the moments replay in my mind, it feels like we were there almost every night. While after all these years, the games we went to all seem to meld into one, I can still feel the lump in my throat when I stood on my seat and watched the last at-bat ever of my soon-to retire childhood hero, Yaz, as he waved to the deafening crowd before popping out to the second baseman. I can feel the sting on my hand as I high-fived complete strangers following Dewey’s extra-inning walk-off homer, after my dad and I had snuck down to some pretty sweet box seats (most fans had left the game late, with the Sox trailing, and, I believe Evans had hit a dinger in the bottom of the ninth to tie it). Maybe that’s why sports and fandom are so special to me - they can connect you to people you don’t know in a very intimate way, simply because you hold something close to your heart in the same way.

Earlier this summer I took Michael to his first game at Fenway, courtesy of Nana & Papa (spellcheck doesn’t recognize ‘Fenway’, by the way, which should be a crime). Things have changed at the ballpark, of course, which is a little difficult to get used to, but I imagine that in Michael’s mind, the visit will still carry mystique. The smell of hot dogs and stale beer has been replaced by the smells of personal pizzas and Sam Adams. You can’t smell old cigarette smoke or cheap cigars anymore, since there’s no smoking in the park. But the roar of the fans is still the same (accompanied by the profanities which creep up in the latter innings from the fans who have had too much of said Sam Adams), as is the view of the perfect field down below.

We ate at the Pavilion Club, then enjoyed some very nice seats up along the right field line. The Sox lost to the Rangers, 2-1, but I’m not sure that’ll matter to Michael in a few years. He was patient until about the 8th inning, when he started asking if we could go, but he stayed until the final out. We capped the day with a foam finger (not that finger), and Michael fell asleep in the car on the way home. A great start to what I hope will eventually become one big happy memory for him.

(blurry photos courtesy of Papa, by the way)