A Trip To Last a Lifetime

In a little less than a year and a half, January 2012, to be exact, I’ll be 50 years old. Sometime around then, too, Fenway Park will turn 100. It’s strange that with all our accumulated years we’d never before had the chance to meet- until last week, that is.   

While living my whole life in the Washington, DC, area, I’d never before spent any time in Boston; never on vacation, never on business, no family to visit… a reason to go just never came up. Last week, however, I finally went. With a native Bostonian having recently joined our extended family, my wife and I took the opportunity to hook up with our new tour guide and spend a few days in Beantown. Man, am I glad we did.

On Friday morning, my first day there, I got my first look at Fenway. For those who are baseball geeks like me, I don’t have to describe the excitement when I first saw the light towers and the iconic ‘Fenway Park, Home of the Boston Red Sox’ sign from the Mass Turnpike. The excitement meter went off the charts, though, when I took the stadium tour.

Since tickets for the tour are purchased at the merchandise store across Yawkey Way from the stadium, when you leave the store to head for the stadium entrance you can’t avoid walking headlong into the only part of the old place that remains intact from its original 1912 construction, the brick façade that forms the front of the building, atop which is carved the name of the venerable old place. Admittedly, although I’m a lifelong Baltimore Orioles fan, it’s extremely cool to see all the pennants suspended from horizontal flagpoles along the wall: 1903, ‘04, ‘12, ‘15, ‘16, ‘18, ‘46, ‘67, ‘75, ‘86, and, of course, 2004 and 2007. It’s a little harder to read the weathered bronze of the plaques affixed at various spots along the wall that memorialize such Red Sox legends as Yawkey, Collins and Williams, but if you tilt your head just right and block the glare, you can get reacquainted with their place in Boston baseball history.

Thank goodness we had Al for a tour guide. Al was an older gentleman, somewhere in age between myself and the Park, and he was steeped in all the Fenway lore, which he delivered with great energy and enthusiasm. He first took us to the Budweiser rightfield pavilion for the most breathtaking view not just of the field and its environs, but also for the city panorama that surrounds the park for miles in all directions. There, after a photographer snapped a family photo with the interior of the stadium as a backdrop (available for us to purchase at the end of the tour, naturally), Al recited for us the history of the park, from the early days of the wooden structure, through the myriad changes wrought by the beloved Thomas Yawkey, and to all those introduced by the present day ownership group.

Once the pavilion sights were exhausted, it was on to the press box. To get there, high above home plate, we meandered through hallways whose walls were adorned with vintage black and white photos of decades of Red Sox history. Had I more time and less fear of being left behind by the group, I would have lingered for hours taking them all in, but Al had us on a steady march, so I kept up.

And again, I’m glad I did. Take any seat you want, Al invited to us all, waving his arm towards the triple-decked rows, and he then proceeded to share with us how the press box attendants go about providing to the assembled writers all the information they need to know to write their stories. It was important to note, he elaborated, that the press box was for the ‘print writers’ only; the TV and radio guys had their own booths elsewhere in the stadium, he said, but they weren’t part of the tour. I found it immensely gratifying, though, to catch sight of the famous CITGO sign over the leftfield wall. If I ever thought I was dreaming that day, seeing that sign as I have in so many pictures reinforced that I actually was where I thought I was. (Once we were seated, and before Al began his spiel, my wife leaned over and rhetorically asked me, referring to the writers who normally occupied our seats, “I bet this would be your dream job, wouldn’t it?” Evoking thoughts of Red Smith and Grantland Rice likely once having sat somewhere in the vicinity, I had to agree.) 

Of course, while we sat in the press box taking in all the sites of the empty ballpark (well, not quite empty, but more about that in a minute), Al was obligated to tell us about the Ted Williams seat. There it was, waaaaaay out in the rightfield bleachers, a lone red seat awash in a sea of green. Did anyone know why that seat was red? Al asked the group, and I volunteered, not because I actually knew, but because I had read about it the night before in some Fenway Park literature. That’s the seat where a Yankee fan, in town from New York, dozed off in the middle of a game only to be awakened by a Ted Williams home run that hit the sleeping patron in the head. An amazing 502-foot home run that has been memorialized by a red seat ever since. Anyone can sit there, Al explained, all you have to do is ask the ticket agent for the next game the Williams’ seat will be available, then buy a ticket for that game. If I ever make it back to Fenway, I’m sure going to have to try to sit there. 

Having seen all there was to see from the press box, we then moved on to the seats above the Green Monster. There, I had two moments of nostalgia: one, looking straight down and imagining the line of succession of leftfielders from Williams to Yaz to Rice turning to play a carom off the wall; and second, sitting so close to the Fisk pole. It was right there for all to see and touch. I was 13 when Fisk hit his home run in the ’75 World Series, and the sight of him in my mind hopping down the first base line waving the ball fair was as clear that day as if it was happening right at that moment. Who would have thought lo those many years later that the screen would be gone and I could actually sit atop the 37 foot wall? It sort of disappoints me to think of all the good old stadiums that could have done such remodeling but chose instead to tear the whole thing down and put up another.

We had one final stop to make. After learning all about the new turf and drainage system, Al took us to the oldest seats in the house, the wooden ones along the leftfield line. I immediately thought about all the photos I’ve ever seen of fans back in the day wearing boaters and derbies, dressed to the nines to take in a game, and I was so proud of those in charge for retaining those old seats.

Once we were settled, Al educated us about all the little nuances of the Green Monster. About the ladder that still provides access from field level to the top of the wall, the one that allowed men to retrieve balls hit into the screen, even though the screen has long since been removed; and about the Yawkeys’ initials that adorn the vertical lines running down the scoreboard. Also, we learned all about the room behind the scoreboard, and just what a dark and dingy place it really is.

We might have seen more of the Green Monster but our sight was obscured. As it turns out, last Saturday night there was a concert held at Fenway, the J. Geils Band and Aerosmith, both bands from Boston, bands from my youth for gosh sake, and during our Friday visit workmen were preparing the stage. It was a massive platform that blocked much of the wall and all of centerfield, and I thought about all the games I’d seen on TV when Fred Lynn played such magnificent defense in that section of the park. I felt kind of cheated that I couldn’t see it now, but what are you going to do? Aging rockers, just like aging ballparks, have to maintain their functionality.

Before we were through (those ancient seats were the last stop on our tour; unfortunately, they didn’t offer the chance to go onto the field or into the dugouts or locker rooms), Al entertained questions, and someone asked about the numbers hanging on the mezzanine in rightfield. Even having never been to Fenway before, I knew them all: 1 for Doerr; 4 for Cronin; 6 for Pesky; 8 for Yaz; 9 for the Splendid Splinter; the newest, 14, for Rice; 27 for Fisk; and of course, 42 for Jackie Robinson, and I felt like those men were still out there. That’s what a magical place does anyway, doesn’t it, sort of suspends time?

It is nice to know that when Fenway turns 100 the owners will ask the government to add it to the list of historic places. That way, said Al, it will never be torn down. After all, that’s the way it should be.

When I left the stadium, I made sure to purchase our picture. It’s really striking, particularly the sky. In the picture it’s a brilliant shade of blue, the sun is streaming onto the field, and, despite the stage (which, thankfully, the photographer was able to avoid), Fenway is ready for play. I don’t know if I’ll ever get back there again, but if I don’t, at least I’ve got memories that will last a lifetime.