A lot of baseball talk yesterday evening left my yearning for America's Pastime. So that coupled with my sagging results in the poll to your right (hey, caught me on a bad week..what about last week?) forced me to write something good. The day I first saw Fenway's fabled Green Monster, and how it forever changed me:
It’s crowded. More people than I’ve ever seen. It feels like I have to duck and squeeze my way through just to keep up with my dad.
I’m holding his hand, but my 10-year-old arm is stretched as far as it can go.
We finally reach some space. We walk up a ramp and with each step it gets louder and louder.
Once we get to the top, we stop. You have to your first time. It seems like there’s a million people. My eyes, wide and overwhelmed, move from the giant jumbotron, to the field, then to the wall. The wall. You have to stare at it if you haven’t seen it. I inhale and hold my breath, eyes moving from the base of the wall to the top.
This is no ordinary wall. It’s a 37-foot, fence-green colored Monster. I’ve heard about it. I’ve seen it on T.V. But I’ve never seen it in person.
My dad lets me stand there for a few more seconds before looking down and putting his hand on my shoulder. “How bout that Green Monster, Nicky.”
“It’s awesome.” I can barley say it loud enough.
My dad leads me by the arm up a few steps to two wooden chairs. The paint on mine is scraped and scratched. I fit in fine, but my dad has a tougher time.
We’re playing the Yankees. We watch the game and we eat—a lot. We get hot dogs, cracker jacks, Cokes, and I get ice cream in a mini Red Sox helmet. I think I’m lucky. Every father and son should do this. I think, “Thanks, Dad.” But, I don’t know if I say it.
I don’t remember the score of the game, but I know we lost. It didn’t matter to me then like it would now.
I go to Fenway Park whenever I can now. I still get the same thing: Hot dog (or sausage) at the start of the game, cracker jacks in the middle, and usually an ice cream bar instead of the helmet.
A father and son trip to the ballpark is always waxed poetically and hyperbolized. But, is it a coincidence that I want to become a sports writer? Is it a coincidence that baseball is my favorite sport, that I chose a school a stones-throw away from Fenway?
When the Sox lost in the 2003 playoffs to the Yankees on Aaron Boone’s walk-off homerun, I felt sick, dejected, sad, and deflated. The first person I called was my dad. In a soft, somber, but controlled voice, he told me, “Hey, this how this works. It’s been this way for years.”
When the Sox won the year after, pulling off the best comeback in sports history en route to ending an 86-year-old curse, I was ecstatic. Emotional and almost moved to tears, sprinting down Beacon Street towards Kenmore Square, I called my dad.
“This is the best, Nick,” he said. “Take it in. This is the best moment of our lives.”
No, Dad. That day 13 years ago was.
I’m holding his hand, but my 10-year-old arm is stretched as far as it can go.
We finally reach some space. We walk up a ramp and with each step it gets louder and louder.
Once we get to the top, we stop. You have to your first time. It seems like there’s a million people. My eyes, wide and overwhelmed, move from the giant jumbotron, to the field, then to the wall. The wall. You have to stare at it if you haven’t seen it. I inhale and hold my breath, eyes moving from the base of the wall to the top.
This is no ordinary wall. It’s a 37-foot, fence-green colored Monster. I’ve heard about it. I’ve seen it on T.V. But I’ve never seen it in person.
My dad lets me stand there for a few more seconds before looking down and putting his hand on my shoulder. “How bout that Green Monster, Nicky.”
“It’s awesome.” I can barley say it loud enough.
My dad leads me by the arm up a few steps to two wooden chairs. The paint on mine is scraped and scratched. I fit in fine, but my dad has a tougher time.
We’re playing the Yankees. We watch the game and we eat—a lot. We get hot dogs, cracker jacks, Cokes, and I get ice cream in a mini Red Sox helmet. I think I’m lucky. Every father and son should do this. I think, “Thanks, Dad.” But, I don’t know if I say it.
I don’t remember the score of the game, but I know we lost. It didn’t matter to me then like it would now.
I go to Fenway Park whenever I can now. I still get the same thing: Hot dog (or sausage) at the start of the game, cracker jacks in the middle, and usually an ice cream bar instead of the helmet.
A father and son trip to the ballpark is always waxed poetically and hyperbolized. But, is it a coincidence that I want to become a sports writer? Is it a coincidence that baseball is my favorite sport, that I chose a school a stones-throw away from Fenway?
When the Sox lost in the 2003 playoffs to the Yankees on Aaron Boone’s walk-off homerun, I felt sick, dejected, sad, and deflated. The first person I called was my dad. In a soft, somber, but controlled voice, he told me, “Hey, this how this works. It’s been this way for years.”
When the Sox won the year after, pulling off the best comeback in sports history en route to ending an 86-year-old curse, I was ecstatic. Emotional and almost moved to tears, sprinting down Beacon Street towards Kenmore Square, I called my dad.
“This is the best, Nick,” he said. “Take it in. This is the best moment of our lives.”
No, Dad. That day 13 years ago was.
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I think you'd probably get an A- on this in Falla's class
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