I attended a ball game at Fenway Park. My expectations reached skyward for this hallowed place where thousands of fans built a spirited following. I’m not gonna lie. I wasn’t sipping any lager, and I’m neutral towards Boston sports teams, but I drank up the enthusiasm around me in the stands. Fenway was fun.
We watched the game from the right field bleachers, sizzling in the sun and chilling in the cloud cover. I put my monocular to use, focusing on the pitcher to batter to fielders and basemen.
The crowd buzzed with conversation and cheers. The Boston-accented announcer called out players as they strutted to home plate.
At breaks in the game, I noticed a man would throw open a door in the Green Monster and shuffle down the warning track (primitive tactile warning surface!). He switched numbers by hand to update scores on the legendary board. Fenway’s own Vanna White I thought to myself. What a neat job.
I snacked on some oninoned-and-relished Italian sausage. I tried not to spill mustard on my shorts with each bite. Hearing the bat connect with the baseball, my niece’s giggles, and the roar of the crowd, it made me realize the warm season is here.