As we arrived at the gate, the clouds draped grey, thin, and ominous above us. A chill hung in the air, biting at the thin cardigan draped over my shoulders.
After the search of our bags and the scan of our tickets, the group split - the boys headed to scour the park for jerseys, hats and other various knick-knacks to bring home, Michelle and I stopped square in the middle of everything, drinking it all in as game-day fans weaved in and out and around us. The allure of the concession stand beckoned, even though our stomachs were still heavy with the local Boston fare eaten just minutes before. Michelle smiled her striking wide smile, showcasing the brilliant white teeth of a dentist’s daughter. “I’ll buy you a beer!” she grinned. With barely a moment’s hesitation, I accepted.
Beers in hand, fingers gripping the thin plastic cups that barely separated our already cold palms from the chilled Miller Lite draft, we perused the red sox memorabilia and souvenir gear from the outside looking in. ‘No food, No drinks’ plastered across every door. With over an hour ‘til the first pitch we decided to check out the field itself. We entered at bleacher 30 and headed straight toward the diamond. ever curious, we bee-lined closer and closer to home plate, dodging ticket checkers with determined looks and self assured gaits. Within feet of the field, we watched mesmerized as the grounds team carefully raked, painted and dusted the diamond in Zen-garden-like fashion.
The clock neared 7 and we navigated towards our seats. back, back further, up and up further until we reached the next to last row where our identically clan companions awaited. Bart, Justin and Kevin all donned bleach-white red sox jerseys and sat expectantly like excited ducks in a row.
Our seats were small and close together. Our view all-encompassing. The vendors traversed the aisles calling out their specialties in their trademark Boston accents: “Peanuts!” “Lemonade!” “Hawt dawgs!” The clouds began to break and sprinkles of rain caused me to throw on my rain slick. Michelle got out her umbrella and covered the both of us in what we started referring to as our “little house.” we cheered for our favorite players. We boo’ed for our least favorite plays.
In the aftermath of a few beers, I started to crave pizza, fries and more beer -- all things not offered by our convenient aisle vendors. About to give up hope, I finally spotted a man with a wide heat-proof pizza box on our stairs crying “Pizza! Pizza!” Excited, Michelle and I chipped in to share a small personal pan which we devoured quickly and absolutely. The melted cheese and tomato sauce pleased my palate. Satiated, we hunkered down in the cold of the rain. Our arms intertwined, we huddled together and shivered in time to keep warm. “We’re like the Cherokee heart beat,” Michelle mused, reminiscing on our visit to the recreated Indian village. “Bum bum. Bum bum. Bum bum.”
In the seventh inning, with the home team down 8 to 2, Michelle and I decided to head for warmer grounds and, accompanied by Kevin, took leave of the ballpark.
The rain misted the tops of our rain hoods as we walked away from the lights, the cheers and the fans of Fenway.
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