At game time the temperature was 81 but by the second inning there was a gentle breeze blowing our way. I was in heaven: The bleacher seats at Fenway - the best park in the country for baseball and people watching.
There are glitzier parks and more glamorous ones. In the past two years we've traveled to Baltimore, Toronto and Tampa Bay with my nieces Linda and Laura - rabid fans, both. (Okay, Linda is the rabid fan, Laura is in it for the adventure.) But given a choice, I'll take the park on Yawkey Way. In part, because of the memories it evokes.
My introduction to Red Sox Nation, though it wasn't called that back in those days, was sitting with my Grandfather listening to a game. He in his suit and tie, me in my Sunday-best dress and maryjanes. The radio was in the bedroom of their Beacon Street apartment and we'd sit there, all attention. I was so young my feet dangled five inches from the floor, but he thought I was old enough to learn how to keep a scorecard.
I didn't get to a game at Fenway until I was a bride. Our children were five and seven when they saw their first game. Since then I've been with friends who know the name and stats of every player on the team, friends who root for the opposition, and friends who are virgins in the territory of sports. I've been in the years when management couldn't give the tickets away and seasons when you have to tap dance or have good connections to get one. One thing is constant - the thrill I get when I walk up the ramp and see the field spread out before me.
They lost last night, in spite of Beckett's pitching and Big Papi's two home runs. Still they head the division with a seven game lead over the Yankees.
All's well in Red Sox nation.