fenway park
Boston, Part III (final), 3 July 2002
Let me start by saying that the following experience brought me one step closer toward being a baseball fan--that is to say it brought me the first step
ever toward being a fan. I actually watched some of the all-star game the other night because I have, at least a newfound understanding of, if not a newfound respect for the game.
When Tommy and I entered the park, or should say drifted into the park along a rushing current of fans, he suggested we walk straight out into the stands to get a ground-level view of Fenway and The Monstah before finding our roof-top boxes. We hit an eddy of the fan-current on the lower-level at third base just as the Canadian national anthem was being sung. Over the strains of "Oh, Canada" Tommy leaned toward me.
"Do you see The Monstah?"
I did. It was obvious. Where left field should have stretched another thirty feet across Lansdowne Street, a 35-foot green wall stood instead. Later, Tommy explained that when John Taylor built the park there wasn't room to build the whole of left field so he build The Green Monster instead. A 36-foot 9-inch wall that prevented a low flying ball from too easily becoming a home-run hit. For a batter to hit one "out of the park" in left field, the ball would still need to be traveling almost 40 feet above the ground to clear the pale green wall (it wasn't actually green until 1947, but let's not quibble). Anything less would produce a unique "thunk" as it hit the wall and be reflected back into play.
We turned our attention toward the "Star Spangled Banner" (the flag and the song) and then headed back out to find our seats on the roof.
Our seats were high above first base with a remarkable view of the diamond with feeling like you were miles away. Instantly, Tommy (one of the religious himself since childhood) began explaining the displayed stats to me. I always knew that the appeal of professional baseball often comes from a familiarity--if not memorization--of statistics. I did not grow up with baseball fans in my house or hang out with any baseball fans when I was young (let's face it, I didn't hang out with
anyone when I was young--I was woefully unpopular) so I've never had baseball stats explained to me. Oh, I've been to a couple of local double-A minor league games, but never saw an appeal over the mascot racing a 5-year-old around the bases between innings. But Tommy was a wealth of information. Over the course of the evening he explained what the designated hitter was, the pinch runner, the pinch hitter and just about everything else that was outside of my limited mental view of baseball.
He explained to me that at the professional level, baseball is like chess. It's not (like in little league) a matter of luck or dominating players or any of the things you tend to associate with professional basketball or soccer. He showed me how he, by strictly being a fan, could predict what would happen next on the field. He could tell me when a steal or a bunt or a walk was coming up.
"How do you know that?"
"It's all statistics. See he's got a man on two and three and the batter up has a decent batting average of .320 with eleven homers so far this season, so he can't afford the risk of throwing strikes and chance that the batter will connect. So he's gotta walk him."
It was becoming clear to me why statistics were so important to the teams and why it made the game interesting for the fans. I could see why keeping a stat of how a player hits against a given pitcher becomes of supreme importance when you're talking about the large money involved in pro sports. A losing season could drive next year's ticket sales down (though not in Boston or Chicago, but that's different).
The big news of the night was Tony Clark. Tommy told me this was his rookie season with the Sox after three consecutive 30-homer seasons with the Tigers. After starting the season strong, he quickly fell into a slump. When he was up to bat, we could feel a collective psychic groan from the crowd. The feeling that Clark could deliver, but probably won't was more than stated to me by Tommy, the collective body language of the entire crowd was screaming it to me. In that sense, they were not disappointed. Clark struck out his first and third at-bats with and inconsequential hit on his second at-bat.
After Clark's second strike-out, Tommy commented that, by the scoreboard, it was still 91 degrees at 9:00 p.m. I though I'd see how the weather was back home so I called Time and Temperature in Fort Wayne and not only did it tell me it was 92 and 8:00 p.m., it also reminded me that it was July 3rd.
Shit. It was my parents wedding anniversary. I gave them a call.
"Mom!"
"Hi! Where
are you?"
"I'll tell you in a minute, can you get Dad on the phone?"
"Sure, I'll give him the phone and get on the extension in the bedroom."
Dad. "Hey. It's loud there."
"Yes, it is. Is Mom on?"
"I'm here."
"Cool. I just wanted to wish you a happy anniversary from Fenway Park where I'm watching the Red Sox play Toronto."
They were genuinely impressed and thanked me for the call. I told them where I was sitting in case they caught the highlights on the news and wanted to look for me. Back to the game...
It's the bottom of the eighth and the relatively boring game has yielded a 2-2 score. Suddenly excitement breaks out! pinch-runner Rickey Henderson steal second by plowing into a misguided ball thrown by a Toronto infielder (Darren Fletcher, for those of you keeping stats at home) and knocking the ball into the outfield giving him the opening to steal third. After another out and two more single base-hits, the bases are loaded with two outs and guess who's coming to dinner? Mr. Tony Clark steps up to the plate in a left-handed posture (he's a switch-hitter, which means he can bat left- or right-handed). Tommy lets a "jeez" escape under his breath. I didn't need an explanation this time--tie game at the bottom of the eighth and the could-be-except-for-the-slump star is at bat. Toronto's Cliff Politte quickly racks Clark up to a full count--three balls, two strikes. The next pitch is the thing.
"He's thinking he's gonna choke, isn't he?" I ask Tommy.
"Probably"
"The pitcher thinks he will too. He's going to throw a strike. He can't afford to walk in the run."
"Yep. He's going straight up the chute. No doubt there."
Politte winds up and sends a fastball down the middle and Clark swings. And hits! And the ball grounds past the second baseman and into center field. Tony is stunned for a second, as we all are, and bolts for first. The crowd cheers, Henderson bolts from his stolen third base, comes home and 31,777 fans leap to a simultaneous, deafening ovation. Tony Clark has come through! The hero the fans knew was inside of him has finally come out to play.
The ovation continues until Boston's Merloni steps up to the plate. He hits a carbon copy of Clark's center-field grounder to bring in run number 4 and keep the bases loaded. Now that Clark is on second, thew coaching staff sends Rickey Henderson in to pinch run for him. As Clark walks off the field, his teammates high-five him and the ground gives him another standing ovation. He has made good and everyone knows it.
The icing on the cake comes as Shea Hillenbrand is struck by Politte's second pitch and the automatic walks drive a 5th run in and the last nail in Toronto's coffin. A pop-fly out to left field ends the eighth inning.
No here we are at the top of the ninth with a score of 5-2. If this were LA or San Deigo, the fans would be pouring out of the stadium convinced that the game was won and convinced that leaving now will help them beat traffic out of the stadium. I've seen this on television (that's the only reason I know, and then only on the 11 O'Clock news highlights...by accident). But not in Boston. The religion that is the Sox at Fenway keeps the congregation in this classic cathedral until the last drop of opponents blood is spilled. Boston fans are there for real.
Nothing happens to even thing up in the top of the ninth, so the game is over. (They don't play the bottom of the ninth if the home team is ahead.) A few hits, a few runs, a hero redeemed, the sacrament of the dog and the beer and I am bitten, just a bit, by the baseball bug.
I'm bitten enough to be pissed that Bud Selig called the All-Star game after the 11th inning and to know
why I'm pissed. I'm bitten enough to want to take my tom-boy middle daughter to a Cubs game. I'm even bitten enough to consider seeing the Reds play the Cubs in Cincinnati the day after
Fray Day 6.
We'll see.
