When Holding You

FLASHBACK — JULY 21, 2023 BOSTON

Toots and I are on our way to Bolyston Street.

From there the plan was to go north to Newbury where we’d travel east. The wide sidewalks would take us past tony, high-class shops to lunch and the Public Garden. Then through the Common.

On the bridge over Route 90 we’re about to pass a man and a woman. I notice the man is Pete Alonso. Been in town for 30 minutes and already I like Boston.

I have about two seconds to figure out what to say. It’s tough to come up with any thought beyond “Holy shit that’s Pete Alonso!”

Alonso wears an easy stride, a loose-fitting button-down, and dark sunglasses that cover his piercing, light-blue eyes. He appears to stop talking to the woman as we approach, no doubt sensing, he’s been recognized.

That slight hesitation on his part tells me what to do. I smile and without breaking stride say, “Let’s go Mets, Pete.”

Alonso takes it in and says, “Oh hey, thank you.” He turns around to look at us now 10 feet past, “Thank you very much. Alright”

I clap my hands and nod. Everything in my body language echoes the four words I said. Pete nods back and smiles. Just a couple of handsome bastards enjoying a mid-afternoon in Boston.

In the 9 games since that interaction Pete Alonso hit .352 with 4 HRs and 12 RBIs. See what a little positive encouragement can do.

Later, Toots and I are part of the crowd strolling down Ipswich on the way to the game. There is something special about walking to the neighborhood ballyard on a warm summer evening. Here, among the rest of the congregants, we’re heading to church.

After making the right onto Lansdowne we get our first sight of one of America’s great cathedrals. My heart skips several beats. There it is, right there: Fenway Park.

We head down Lansdowne with its bars, music hall, and the smell of sizzling meats. The sky is gray, clouded, and stirred. It hangs over the scene like the Green Knight’s axe over King Arthur’s court.

We turn down Jersey Street, known for years as Yawkey Way, and formally enter the grounds. Here the magic begins to take over.

On one side is the gorgeous brick facade of the park lined with the banners of Red Sox championships dating from World War I to 2018. A few trees line the sidewalk and add to the warm atmosphere.

Across the street are more bars and the team’s official store. The store is impressive. Deep and well-designed, gear for the visiting team greets you when you come in.

They also sell t-shirts to commemorate the series, similar to how European football clubs sell scarves to celebrate a match. Boston still likes to keep spiritual contact with the British even though they were booted out years ago. It is NEW England after all.

If you go, make sure you make your way to the “Clubhouse” in the back-left of the store. There’s a lot of history in that little room and you can see it. It’s right there!

On the stadium-side of the street are various stands selling food and drink. The fare is varied but get a sausage sandwich if you can. Even the locals do.

The atmosphere is enriched by a brass band, a juggling clown, and a man on stilts tossing balls to kids in the crowd. The soundtrack and feeling it engenders recalls years ago. You’ve stepped back in time. It’s here that I knew I was in love with Fenway Park. There’s just nothing like it.

Inside the stadium, which you can freely go into and then back out to Jersey Street, we navigate our way to our seats to take a look.

A former boss of mine, now a friend, gave me some great advice, “Sit by the Monster. See all the dents in the wall. Watch the change the scoreboard by hand. Don’t sit on top. That’s for tourists.”

And there it is. Tall, faded and green, the Monster seems smaller at first glance. Until you get closer. It gets more impressive with every step you take.

We head to take the obligatory “usie” in front of the wall. As we approach an usher asks if we need help. I ask if we can take a picture.

The old man just smiles, he’s heard this one a million times. “Welcome to Fenway Park,” is his warm assent.

Our seats put us in front of a few Mets fans and almost directly behind one of the beams supporting the second deck. Any time a ball is hit to a middle infielder I have to lean left of the pole and then the other way to catch the throw to 1st. It would be annoying if it wasn’t so damn charming.

The Mets trail 1-0 after the 1st because of course they do. Then it’s 3-0 in the 3rd after a double off the monster by Yu Chang. I’ve seen this game countless times this season. But tonight things feel different.

During the top half of the fourth Brandon Nimmo sends a baseball bound for the right-field stands. It’s 3-2 and I’m high-fiving EVERYBODY.

Sky’s holding out so it’s time for a Fenway Frank. We head for the concessions stand tucked into the north western end of the park. Toots gets on the shorter line for ice cream in a baseball helmet. She comes back with the goods in a minature Red Sox hat. Heaven.

While on line we have a lovely conversation with with the mother of a current New York Met. We discuss favorite ballparks, the tension of being a parent of a major leaguer, and the inevitable booing that comes with playing in New York.

“It does bother him a little,” Mets Mom says of the booing. That makes me sad.

A roar goes up from the crowd behind us. A few seconds later the delayed TV feed above the concessions stand shows a homer by Daniel Vogelbach. A big, dynamic blast into the night. The Mets are up 4-3. Hot dog.

The impressive number of Mets fans in attendance start to make our presence felt. “Let’s go Mets!” bounds from every section of the park. We need this game.

Then the Red Sox fight positivity with their own. A louder “Let’s go Red Sox!” drowns us out.

That’s how you do it. You don’t boo down the visiting fans when they cheer. You beat them at their own game. This is a good crowd at Fenway.

Then the rains came. Hard. Remarkably hard. Sheets of water sprinkled with sonic thunder and intensifying lightning.

We’re covered but everyone that isn’t flees to the promenade and the ramps from the stands. The forecast says it’ll pass.

No big deal. Kodai Senga will have to come out of the game but we have Peterson. We’ll be fine. The “Sweet Caroline” I’ve been looking forward to for weeks will still come in the 8th inning.

But the rains don’t stop. They get harder. And harder. And the thunder gets louder, the lightning closer.

Puddles form around the tarp covering the infield and along the warning track in the outfield. Not big ones. Just big enough to house a great white shark.

Forecast update — More storms coming.

Fun and foolishness abounds during the delay. We sing-along to “Don’t Stop Believin”, chant our displeasure with the Yankees, and watch multiple beers guzzled uncovered by the rain where it’s forbidden. Ushers chase the offenders away. Rain’s letting up, maybe they can play this game.

Not a chance. The game is officially suspended. “Sweet Caroline” is gone.

And it’s fine. Because much like the rain:

Hurting runs off my shoulders

How can I hurt when holding you

Sweet Caroline, Neil Diamond

On the way out I stop to use a restroom. I have to walk around a leak from the ceiling that’s strong enough to take a shower in. I take it in and smile because what else can you do. A Red Sox fan on the other side of the vertical ocean between us, with a smile as big as a dinner plate says, “Welcome to Fenway Park.”

It’s a hell of a place. We’ll see ya next season.