Spring is here! Winter has departed, the daffodils are in bloom and the Red Sox are on their way to a World Series victory. Hope springs eternal.
It’s true that baseball is not as popular as it once was, surpassed by football, basketball, soccer and, of course, pickleball. Even so, despite the cold, some 37,300 people played hooky from school and work to attend Opening Day.
My first visit to Fenway Park was with my Little League team. The three-hour bus trip – there were no highways back in prehistoric times – was an adventure itself for a little kid who had never been more than seven miles from home.
Seeing the city and arriving at the old ballpark was amazing. Exiting the dark bowels of the stadium, walking up the ramp into the bright sunlight to a real field of dreams, was like seeing the Emerald City of Oz, a fantasy awash in green. What 11-year-old didn’t dream of hitting the winning homerun over the Green Monster. The place was spectacular.
I didn’t attend another game until after college. But I did experience the 1967 World Series … kind of. I lived on Jersey Street, a homerun away from the ballpark. Not being able to afford tickets, my buddies and me set up shop in my living room/bedroom/kitchen. (It was actually a one-room apartment I shared with a family of cockroaches who also loved baseball.) We acquired a keg of beer, opened all the windows, and watched every game on my 14-inch, black-and-white Admiral TV. The crowd’s cheers waffled into the room, mingling with our whoops, hollers and boos. The neighbors didn’t mind because they, too, had their windows open to the din.
After college and employed, I got married and brought my bride to a game on our honeymoon. We sat in the bleachers – tickets cost a dollar each – and became nauseated at the smell of marijuana.
Today tickets to a game can cost a fortune. Tickets to a World Series game requires “knowing someone.” I knew someone. I attended two 1975 series games thanks to the generosity of my bride’s uncle and the American League. Good old Uncle Arthur once owned a minor-league team affiliated with the American League. Former Red Sox star Jimmie Piersall was his manager.
Every major-league team gets an allotment of tickets for players, most of whom never use them. Each morning they are available at the league hotel for the taking by those who know. Uncle Arthur knew. Once in baseball, always in baseball. He’d gather a dozen ducats that he’d share with the family. If you love baseball, it sure pays to marry someone with wealthy relatives.
Forget peanuts and Crackerjacks, Fenway has become a foodie’s paradise. This year’s offerings include crab-cake sandwiches, caramel Stroopwafels … whatever those are … and avocado fries. Also: Coke-infused, sweet onions (hopefully that refers to Cola Cola) and assorted Asian and vegan delights. You can wash it all down with a Dogfish Head lager. No need to bring your wallet, the place is cashless now. You must pay by app or with a credit card. No kidding!
Baseball has become a full-fledged, entertainment experience, and the Red Sox are no exception. They have Theme Nights for every interest: educators, law enforcement, Jewish, Greek, Polish, Puerto Rican, India, Italian and Irish celebrations, but no Portuguese nights. The south coast is forgotten again. They have Golf, Taco & Tequila Festivals and Star Wars nights with Storm Troopers mingling with the masses … the force (play) be with you.
In addition to the usual T-shirts and Boston Strong bucket hats, they’ll also be offering Indiana Jones bobbleheads … heard he was a big baseball fan. They’ll be giving away jerseys with Red Soxwritten in Hebrew. Really. And Alex Verdugo “Grills,” which I believe are imitation, diamond braces for your teeth. You can’t make this up.
So put down the pickleball racket and get yourself to Fenway Park. Baseball season has begun. Play Ball!
Editor’s note: Mattapoisett resident Dick Morgado is an artist and retired newspaper columnist whose musings are, after some years, back in The Wanderer under the subtitle “Thoughts on ….” Morgado’s opinions have also appeared for many years in daily newspapers around Boston.
By Dick Morgado