FENWAY MANIA

Years ago I was at Fenway Park for a Red Sox game with some friends. One of them got on me late in a one-sided contest.

 

“I’ll bet you don’t dare run out on the field and slide into second base,” he said. Like the rest of us, he may have had an adult libation or two. The friend knew I had an impulsive streak and that I also didn’t mind being noticed, occasionally.

(Note: Every columnist is an attention seeker. Regardless of content, every column also says “I’m here. Notice me. I want to make a statement.”)

I pondered running onto the field and sliding into second base, but I knew I’d probably be arrested, so I demurred.

“You’re a big chicken,” said my friend. “Bawk bawk bawk. You call yourself a Marine?”

He knew what buttons to push.

“Okay,” I responded. “I’m game. I’ll go if you go.”

Now it was his turn to demur.  “I can’t slide in my shorts!” So no one ran on the field and slid into second base. Thank goodness.

Still, the seed was planted in my mind. Since then, every time I go to Fenway I stare wistfully at second base, and imagine running out and sliding into that bag during the eighth inning rendition of “Sweet Caroline.”

Most Red Sox fans have seen the movie “Fever Pitch.” Remember the Drew Barrymore character dropping from Fenway’s centerfield stands to run past Johnny Damon on her way to stop her boyfriend (the Jimmy Fallon character) from selling his season tickets late in Game #4 against the Yankees in 2004? The scene was the movie’s climax and it reminded me of my destiny to run on to the field and slide into second base during a Red Sox game.

It’s on my Bucket List. I’d jump on the field from that place down the left field line where the stands are just a few feet from the diamond. I’d run onto the field and slide into second base and then run back and jump into the stands. That would finally exorcise the sliding demon that’s been in my brain ever since my friend made that challenge, lo, those many years ago.

But I’d still probably be arrested. So if I was going to get arrested anyway, I might as well make the most of it. After sliding into second base I would jump up and head back towards the left field stands, from whence I came, facing the elderly ushers and portly cops who would be seeking to apprehend me. Then I’d do a quick turn and make a dash for the Pesky Pole area, thus drawing security personnel from THAT area.

With all eyes on me, and with would-be apprehenders converging from two directions I’d turn left and sprint toward the vast open regions of right-center field. By this time, the fans would be on their feet, cheering me on.

 

(We all know that most of us secretly root for the outnumbered outlaw to get away from the authorities, from the police … from the MAN!)

Pumped up by adrenaline, I’d use my speed to put distance between me and my pursuers as I headed towards the bullpen. I’d tear off my windbreaker and throw it in the face of the nearest chaser, thus letting all the fans see me wearing my number “8” Yastrzemski Red Sox shirt.

I’d dodge the authorities as long as I could, while the crowd went crazy, as I anticipated the inevitable You-Tube videos that would immortalize me the next day--after the security goons finally surrounded and apprehended me, near the 420 mark in center field, from whence Drew Barrymore emerged in 2004.

“I’m here. Notice me. I want to make a statement.”

Fast forward to Mothers Day, May 12, 2013. A friend and I watched the Red Sox get drilled by Toronto, 12-4. We had great seats behind home plate, so we stayed until the bitter end. Yes, I looked at second base a few times, but it was not yet the day for that Bucket List second base slide.

When the game ended, field personnel quickly set up some ropes and opened a door to the field, through which streamed little kids and their mothers. The Red Sox were letting moms and kids run the bases! We walked down to the edge of the field and I noticed a DAD (heaven forbid!) joining his daughter for a run around the bases.

“That’s it,” I said. “I’m going in!”

With alacrity and my old athletic prowess, I leapt onto the field and headed for first base and then … THERE IT WAS!  Second base!  I sped up and darted around toddling tykes and waddling moms and closed in on the bag of my dreams. I thought of sliding, but I had shorts on, and was also carrying a video cell phone, recording the historic event for You-Tube. I turned the bag and headed for third.  Then home. Then back into the stands.

No one arrested me.

Did that dash around the Fenway infield exorcise the second base demon that has been haunting me for years?

Sadly, no.  I still need to do it.  Alone.  Someday.

I just have to remember to wear my Yastrzemski shirt—and long pants!