Published: June 21, 2008 11:49 pm            

Father’s Day in Fenway Park, and getting back to ‘The Sip’

Father’s Day 2008 is one I will long remember. For me, it started some weeks ago when my son, Scotty, called and said, “Hey, Dad, I’ve got a great idea for Father’s Day. Let’s go to a game in Fenway Park.”

Scotty knew seeing a game in one of our nation’s most historic baseball stadiums, home of the Boston Red Sox since 1912, had long been atop my personal “bucket list.” So, we began planning the father-son sojourn right down to the minute details – hotel, travel, meals, and game day tickets.

We bought our Sox tickets on the Internet. I don’t know whether that was a mistake or not. We paid a hefty sum, but were nonetheless assured of getting two premium seats down the third base line. As it turned out, however, we could have purchased tickets from on-site scalpers for less money. But scalper seats are typically in the grandstands. So, getting advanced tickets turned out to be a six-of-one, half-dozen-of-the-other proposition. (A quick tip if you buy Internet tickets – try to secure seats on the first base side so you can see the left field corner of the park.)

Our hotel was located fairly close to Logan International Airport. We hopped “The T,” Boston’s rail transit system, to Fenway. Riding “The T” proved a cultural experience in itself. Sometimes the cars are so jammed-packed that one becomes almost intimate with fellow passengers. I’ll put it this way – you can sure tell if somebody’s Right Guard has taken a sharp left turn. Fact is, you could spend three days in Boston just people-watching aboard “The T” and not get bored. Talk about diversity among God’s creations!

When you deboard at Kenmore station and start hoofing toward Fenway, you would never guess it is one of America’s most fabled baseball venues from an exterior perspective. To me, it looked more like an old red brick warehouse than a ballpark. But when you turn the corner and see Yawkey Way - a street named after Tom Yawkey, owner of the Sox from 1933 to 1976 - things really start jumping. Yawkey Way is a pre-game meet-and-mingle spot for rabid Sox fans, concessionaries, and souvenir vendors. The carnival atmosphere kind of sets the table for one’s first glimpse of the playing field, which is absolutely breathtaking. It’s baseball fantasyland, the likes of which has, little by little, fallen by the wayside with the demolition of American landmarks like Tiger Stadium, Ebbets Field, Forbes Field, The Polo Grounds, Comiskey Park and Crosley Field. And now Yankee Stadium, the House that Ruth Built, will join that lethal list this year. I believe that leaves only Fenway and Chicago’s Wrigley Field as our bastions of baseball yesteryear.

Scotty and I absorbed the whole Fenway experience from batting practice to the seventh-inning stretch to roasted peanuts and hot dogs. A Fenway Frank, as they are called, is wrapped in a piece of light bread. That was my only disappointment of the evening. If I’m going to scarf down a hot dog at the ole ballpark, then give me a real bun, dad gummit!

The defending world champion Red Sox won the game over the Baltimore Orioles without breaking much of a sweat. The highlight came when catcher Jason Varitek slammed a dinger over the iconic Green Monster in left field. Mr. Spalding shot out of the park like a greased bazooka and came to rest on the hood of a car parked outside the stadium. That scene made the 11 o’clock news.

While the ballgame was the centerpiece of our trip, it wasn’t the only reason we enjoyed Boston. For the next two days, Scotty and I took in most of the Colonial period historic sites, walking the three-mile “Freedom Trail.” Before starting the trek, we stopped in the Tourist Information Center and asked for directions. Scotty inquired, “Can you tell us where the Freedom Trail begins? We’re just off the plane from Mississippi, and we’re not familiar with the area.” To which a crusty old New Englander replied, “That’s no excuse.”

Well, that just kind of hit me the wrong way. “Nobody from Mississippi would ever greet you like that,” I thought to myself. I almost told the guy to run up an alley and holler fish, but patience got the best of me. By the way, New Englanders tend to finish off a lot of their words with the “a” sound. For instance, it’s not clam chowder. It’s clam chowda. The word “the” is sometimes pronounced “duh,” as in “duh dugout” or “duh door.”

Speaking of clam chowder, Scotty and I spooned a hearty bowl in America’s oldest restaurant, the Union Oyster House. We also dined in a famous pizzeria called “Regina’s,” as well as the original Cheers Bar, which inspired the popular TV series starring Ted Danson, Shelly Long, Woody Harrelson, and Kirstie Alley. (Note to my preacher, Brother Alan – we got sloppy drunk on Diet Coke.)

Now, when you’re in a Boston bar (or any place else, for that matter) – everybody, and I mean everybody, is wearing some kind of team apparel, whether it’s a Celtics T-shirt, a Red Sox cap, a Patriots jersey, or a Bruins jacket. Sports are an electric, unifying force in a melting pot of humanity. I think it would be a neat thing for Mississippi to host a professional team. Quite honestly, a minor league franchise or rooting for the Saints just isn’t the same as having your very own major league team. (Another project for Haley?)

One painful lesson I learned on the cobbled streets of Beantown – card-carrying AARP members like me shouldn’t try keeping pace with an athletic 26-year-old in hiking those formidable hills. The aforementioned Freedom Trail culminates around the Old Ironsides (U.S.S. Constitution) exhibit and Battle of Bunker Hill Monument. The latter is shaped like the Washington Monument and looms about 300 steps straight up. By the time I reached the top, I was just praying they had a defibrillator handy.

My hamstrings felt afire by the time we staggered back to the hotel. But along the way we toured things like Paul Revere’s home, the gravesites of famous Colonials such as Samuel Adams, John Hancock, Increase Mather and Crispus Attucks, the Old North Church (one if by land; two if by sea), and numerous old state buildings, meeting houses, and duck pond city parks.

While mentioning Paul Revere – here’s a bit of trivia. The legendary patriot silversmith was twice married and had eight children with each spouse! My wife (Claudia) would have gladly surrendered me to the British after about number three.

Scotty and I got a big kick out of the sidewalk performers around a bustling square called Quincy’s Market – jugglers, break dancers, acrobats, unicyclists, and balloon artists. Along most every sidewalk there are also people singing for their supper, hoping passersby will throw a few coins their way. Some are pretty talented, too.

On the last day of our trip, we visited Harvard University, America’s oldest institution of higher learning. We were captivated strolling through those hallowed halls, especially the law school and the athletic facilities. In fact, we ran into a member of the coaching staff who provided us with a personal tour. I asked him how the Crimson fared on the gridiron last fall, and he replied, “Just great! We kicked Yale’s ---. That’s what really counts.”

Well, I guess it doesn’t matter what region of the country you’re from. MSU has its Ole Miss. Alabama has its Auburn, Georgia has its Georgia Tech, and Florida has its Florida State. And, yes, even blue-blooded Ivy Leaguers relish winning the annual bragging rights over their arch rivals.

My beloved son and I really etched some wonderful memories in Boston and snapped a slew of pictures. I will study them often, laugh, and cherish our special time together. But, in the end, we also reflected on what a blessing it is to live in the pineywoods of Mississippi, where the pace of life is far more tolerable, the winters aren’t nearly so severe, the countryside is a Godly work of art, and the people are the most hospitable on the planet. In his youthful jargon, Scotty perhaps put it best as we shuttled to the airport for our homeward flight. “Dad,” he sighed, “this has been fantastic, but it’s time to get back to The Sip.”

For most residents of the Deep South, I suspect Boston, for all its history, might be considered one of those rat-race kind of mega-cities that could be characterized as “a nice place to visit, but I really wouldn’t want to live there.” Whereas, “The Sip” is home sweet home - end of story.

        

• Click to discuss this story with other readers on our forums.