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!
