Had a good weekend here. As reported Friday, my sis and her fam are in town for a visit and it has not disappointed. Party of 8 at Denly’s for pizza Friday night. A night off on Saturday for watching golf, Frozen Four, and the Bs. Dinner for 11 at Monica’s Trattoria in the North End followed by dessert from Mike’s Pastry last night.
First things first, this is a special day in the city. It’s Patriots’ Day, aka Marathon Monday, a day that always brings a special kind of ecstasy and agony for runners, and a day which brought agony and tragedy to the entire city and to surrounding towns (and the world?) eleven years ago when two terrorists planted two bombs, killing five, severely injuring hundreds, and changing countless lives forever. And not for the better.
It’s one of those events that you remember exactly where you were when it happened and what it was like in the hours and days that followed. And who can forget when Big Papi went rogue in a live broadcast when the Red Sox honored the victims in the days immediately following the tragedy, urging us to stay Boston Strong, proclaiming “this is our f-cking city”?
It’s also one of those events that no matter how much time passes I still won’t be able to make sense of it.
Today we’re going to the Red Sox. I never really thought about going to the Patriots’ Day game (too much going on, too many logistical concerns, too much angst), but now that I am, I’m so excited. Excited to be going to Fenway with my Michigan nieces for the first time, excited for a game that starts in the morning, excited that when the game ends we’re rolling on and cheering for the runners finishing the Boston Marathon. And excited we have a very convenient parking spot secured in at one of my niece’s friend’s places.
Today I am specifically remembering my first Red Sox game, though I’m not sure my specific memory is remotely accurate. Nor does it matter.
Springy and Papa (my grandparents) gave me the ticket for my birthday. I still have the stub in my scrapbook with Snoopy on the cover. The only problem is that—after keeping it in the same spot in the same milk crate in the attic “forever”—I brought it downstairs and left it under the coffee table for some reason. So when we packed up the house for the renovation (in 2017) I also packed the scrapbook…and it hasn’t been seen since. I’m sure it’s in one of the boxes in the garage, but I was also sure where the good wine glasses were…and, well…🤦🏼♀️🤷🏼♀️
I’m sure it will turn up.
Anyway, the ticket stub in the scrapbook will tell you the exact date, time, and price of the ticket, as well as who the Sox played, but for today’s purposes we’ll go by memory.
It likely was 1973 or 1974, making me 6 or 7. I can’t imagine Springy going to a game so I am guessing my Aunt Barbara went with us. She’d have been about 20 or so at the time, so it’s believable. I remember programs and peanuts and being generally overwhelmed, in an out-of-body experience kind of way. Here were all the guys we watched on TV and heard about on the radio, as we lay on the gold-colored wall-to-wall carpet that felt like sand paper and reeked of cigarette smoke that covered the downstairs at 84 Arborway Drive.
And by “watched on TV and heard about on the radio” I mean Papa couldn’t stand the TV announcers so he insisted on TV volume down, transistor radio volume up.
So when we visited, that was how it was.
To this day, one of my favorite things to do is to go to the Red Sox, and I’ll never complain about the price of beer. I think of places and people gone by, and I can still feel them. It’s probably part of the reason that I cry whenever I hear the National Anthem at a live sporting event. Because I’ll never forget.
And even though I am not sure exactly who all is going to the game, I know whichever combination of peeps it is, Papa will be smiling down on us. And I’ll grab a beer and toast him right back. (Also, four of our seats are the best seats in the park—thanks, friend!!!)
It’s gorgeous here today, but I’m stressing about what I’m wearing. And I need to decide once and for all very soon because we have to be to my sister’s by 8. Sneakers, jeans, long sleeve t, Sox jersey…I’m good with that…but…hat (which one?), hair (up or down?), jacket (do I want to carry it?)…decisions…oy.
When Converse offered a limited-edition commemorative sneaker in the days immediately following the Marathon Bombing (with proceeds to benefit the OneFund) I went all in. These babies don’t come out often, but I dusted them off today with thoughts of wearing them…but also worry about wearing them to Fenway. Last year Kerri’s brother got asked to go to a game at night after he had already gone out for the day. He said yes, but he was a little worried (naturally!) about wearing his new bright white sneakers—no time to go home and change—and as luck would have it, someone dropped a buffalo chicken sandwich on his foot. So as I think out loud here, I need to heed that cautionary tale and will go with my navy New Balance. I’ve already had a moment with these ones in memory of those whose lives were lost and in honor of those who soldier on. And for practical (and fashion—the green doesn’t really go with Sox colors) reasons today, I think I’ll save them for another occasion.
Once again I invoke author’s privilege. I’m the one who is writing, so I’ll make up words if I want to.
Anyway…here’s my haiku (maiku) about baseball, thus a basebaiku (or maybe it’s a mybasebaiku?)…in any case:
Our f-cking city. Take me out to the ballgame. Papa smiling down.
Play ball!
Thanks for playing along here with me—I appreciate it, and you, so much.
Have a great week.
Love you too.