Syble Townsel's blog ::...as long as John Kerry and Michael Dukakis keep living there. I give a lot of credit to the Philadelphia...it. He even took his fight to the radio this weekend, which was a brilliant move...
"Hope springs eternal in the human breast; man never is, but always to be blest." - Alexander Pope (1688-1744) I think it's a privilege to live in New England; I love the lifestyle here. To me, there's nothing more beautiful than Maine's beautiful and diverse four seasons . (For those unfamiliar with New England and its seasons of contrast, may I introduce you to, in no particular order, the ice fishin'season, the mud season, the deer huntin'season, and the season of hope and despair for Red Sox fans.) As an unabashed, die-hard baseball fan, I live a life of hope... that someday, somehow, my team - the Boston Red Sox - will once again win the World Series. Probably not this year, though. As of this writing, the 2010 major league baseball season is only two weeks old. My beloved Crimson Hose, that storied team that broke an 86-year old curse when it won the 2004 World Series, and then followed up by winning another world championship three years later, is currently dwelling near the bottom of the American League East. Oops... just got an e-mail... they lost again today, Patriots Day 2010. All this reminds me of days and baseball seasons long past, when New England's favorite sports franchise... well... stunk. Hearken back with me now to another less cheerful time - before 2004, and the magical Red Sox comeback against the Yankees in the American League Championship Series; before the sweep of the St. Louis Cardinals in the World Series - all-l-l the way back to 2001. At the end of this, particular dreary baseball season, my beloved Crimson Hose, so filled with the promise of a championship season in April, once again "tanked" at mid-season. Only two games behind their despised rivals, the New York Yankees, at mid-season, they ended up finishing thirteen and one-half games behind the Bronx Bombers in the American League East standings. Oh, well... to paraphrase Scarlett O'Hara: next year is another day!! During this season of complete mediocrity my then 12-year old son and I twice had the opportunity to visit Fenway Park, home of the Red Sox. On our second visit, on August 4th, we watched... not a game... but a tropical wave pass through. I guess we shoulda figured was a harbinger of things to come. Friday, August 4th: 11:47 a.m.: My son and I are running very late!!! It's normally a three and a half hour drive from our home in mid-coast Maine to Boston. But we have to contend with extremely heavy tourist traffic along US Route 1. And we're leaving late to boot! Neither one of seems to be able to get our stuff together. Because we're running late, and we're in a big hurry, we forget things. My son almost forgets his baseball glove. I nearly forget to take my daily dose of high blood pressure medication. Luckily, we remember these things in the nick of time... just as we're dashing out the door. Our trip south is relatively uneventful. Along our route, we experience three major traffic jams: at Wiscasset, Maine; at the New Hampshire Turnpike toll booth; and at Boston's infamous "Big Dig." These delays add over an hour to our journey. The weather this day is unbearably hot and humid. Local radio and TV stations are predicting strong thunderstorms later in the evening. As we sit in bumper-to-bumper traffic, waiting with growing impatience to get through Boston's notorious "Big Dig," we notice that the sky has suddenly gone from a milky cyan to an angry and foreboding slate gray. Looks like we may just get those "boomers" after all! We get to Fenway Park at 5:30 p.m., about 90 minutes before game time. We know from experience that this is the best time to get to the ol' ball yard, because that's when the gates open. It's much easier to get in and find our seats, since we don't have to fight our way through mobs of fans. After showing our tickets and going through the turnstiles, we walk for what seems like nearly a mile through what can only be described as a labyrinthine catacomb of food vendors and souvenir hawkers. Our seats are in Section 97, right near the right field foul pole (commonly known to Red Sox fans as Pesky's Pole.) We finally spy the sign directing us to "Sections 94-101." We walk up the long gangway and into the stadium. My son and I begin our search for our seats. Our tickets are marked for "Row VV, Seats 14 and 15." The ticket is printed in such a manner that the "double-V" looks to me more like letter "W." For ten minutes, we search in vain for row W in Section 97. (It doesn't exist; for some strange reason, the rows jump from "K" to "AA.") There's not an usher in sight to assist us. All the while we're looking for our seats, two matters of increasing urgency are beginning to rear their ugly heads. The sky is getting increasingly black as that threat of thunderstorms becomes more apparent.; and the diuretic I take for my high blood pressure has begun its work on my kidneys in earnest!! Ohhh-boy-y-y!! I gotta pee, and I mean right now!!! We finally discover our seats - 28 rows up from where we entered. Luckily, "Row VV" is located under the roof of the grandstand. We plant our butts in the narrow, hard seats. The seats are so close together that we feel like we're almost sitting in the laps of the fans seated next to us. Oh well...if it does rain, we should stay dry! But right now... first things first!! Now I gotta descend those 28 rows and find the men's room. No small feat with the ballpark rapidly filling. Everyone else is going up, and I'm comin' down! Now it's getting close to game time. The sky remains an ominous slate gray, the air has cooled rapidly, and the wind has picked up. Right on cue, the announcement comes over the PA system: "Ladies and gentlemen, due to the possibility of severe thunderstorms in the local area, the start time for tonight's game is being delayed..." Then... right on cue... the sudden sharp report of thunder, followed by those great big raindrops that's always the harbinger of a "boomer." And suddenly, the skies open up, and we are awash in a rainstorm of monsoon-like proportions... ...Ever notice how the sight and sound of rain always seems to activate the ol' bladder? Yup... you guessed it... right at the height of this downpour, I find myself faced with another diuretic emergency. Problem is... as soon as it starts raining, everyone with seats not under cover elects to come up under the grandstand roof! Now my son and I are blocked in by an immense throng of soaking wet, smelly spectators! We all stand and stare at right field, as it fills with water. In ten minutes, the grass completely disappears. The rain is coming down so hard that we can't even see the "Green Monstah!" And now the wind has shifted and is blowing the rain directly in our faces. And a great big huge leak in the roof is unceremoniously dumping a stream of water on... you guessed it!! Section 97, Row VV, Seats 11, 12, 13, 14 and 15. The thunderstorm is passing directly overhead. A sudden flash of light and deafening crack testify to a lightning strike on or very near Fenway Park. During this celestial fireworks display, I once again thread my way to the men's room and back again... Oh, what fun! The "toad strangler" that began at precisely 6:02 p.m. continues unabated for over 90 minutes. For some reason, the powers-that-be in the ballpark decide to wait over an hour - until precisely 7:09 p.m... before canceling the game. By then, right field is a lake; center field has several small ponds scattered about; the warning track near Pesky's Pole is a miry bog; and 33,074 faithful members of Red Sox Nation, unable to exit the ballpark because of the continuing danger of lightning strikes, are soaked to the skin, pressed together in any location where they can get out of the rain. Finally, mercifully, the rain lets up enough for people to begin departing. We leave the ballpark at 7:54 p.m., and begin our trek home, without ever seeing our beloved Red Sox take the field. The aftermath of this most unpleasant experience at Fenway Park: three days later we return for the make-up game. This time, we get seats in the grandstand right behind the first base dugout. We're still 27 rows up; seats are still hard as nails, dreadfully uncomfortable and too close together. The rest rooms still seem like they're a mile away. And the food is just as expensive - and bad - as ever. But, it's a clear sunny day, everyone seems in a festive mood. Best of all, the Red Sox win!! Maybe, just maybe, this is gonna be the year after all... |
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