Clare
and I were watching baseball highlights the other night when she asked, “Are
there any bad seats at Fenway?” Like an
owner looking for a freebie stadium, I answered, “Maybe behind the posts.” To which I could’ve added, Big Deal.
If
women belong in baseball, so do load-bearing posts, in order to bring upper
decks close to the action. There are two
Updikian little bandbox ballparks left, Wrigley and Fenway. The fans are all but on top of the field there,
and, if they’re still sober, they can probably hear the players thinking out
loud. Try that at any cantilevered
monstrosity (and you know who you are, U.S. Cellular and…).
Before
Clare was born, Michele and I took a trip to Boston. We walked the Freedom Trail, went aboard the
Constitution and saw the swan boats glide across the lagoon in the Public
Garden. We also drove out to Fenway,
walked around the perimeter of the park and stood under the Green Monster. The park was closed, except for an unblocked
entrance that let us peak inside. The
green is never so green as in an old ballpark.
Not even Hawk Harrelson can diminish the grandeur of the place in those
innumerable and otherwise unbearable stories about his playing days with the
Red Sox.
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