543 Day Writing Journey

Fenway. Day 225.

A dream I’d like to recreate

It wasn’t about the hot dogs, but they did help.

We would leave our house in Southampton early and drive a little over an hour where the subway station was, which we call the T. We’d rest our bums and look out the windows at the different ways of living and towns we’d never meet, blurry yards and shaded, brick apartment buildings, then finally we would end our journey in Boston. I always thought it so invasive to look into the back yards of strangers and see them grill or mow the lawn, but I couldn’t stop.

Boston is a wicked cool city. The people in it are forward, but friendly and real, and there’s always a party going on. Monday morning, Wednesday afternoon, and Saturday nights are no different from each other, but we were always there to see the Red Sox, and the one o’clock games were my favorite.

Baylee at a Red Sox game in 2018

Walking down the streets of Boston is kind of weird. There’s no rhyme to their road systems and the reason is missing from what goes where. I mean, Paul Revere’s old house from the late 1600’s is still standing on a cobblestone road, nestled amongst modern condominiums.

Fenway Park, the home of the Boston Red Sox and Big Papi’s declarations, is also tucked into the city streets like it belongs there, like it’s not an almost eight acre baseball field.

You walk on the sidewalk and see bars, shops, and restaurants, then open regular old doors, walk through, and there’s a freaking baseball field! It is weird and glorious!

The owner of the Red Sox sent us Fenway dirt to sprinkle over Roger’s rock.

The history of the city, led by the Founding Fathers’ proud, unintentional tough guy machismo makes it. The spirits linger all around. You feel it while you sip cheap, warm beer and gobble down a Fenway Frank while you sit in the same place that stood 110 years ago. You can feel the roar after the 2004 World Series when the Red Sox, including Big Papi at the time, won the first time since 1928, and you can hear that same David Ortiz tell the world, “This is our fucking city,” after the 2013 Boston Marathon Bombing.

Fenway Park isn’t just a place, it’s a force, an unforgettable ship of Theseus that even in a hundred years, when the hard, wooden chairs have been replaced, the greasy concession stands are exchanged for automated ones, and even the grass is new, it will always be Fenway, and I can’t wait to go back.

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