As I told someone a moment ago, if you can’t understand why I’d burn a free flight simply to go to Boston to sit outside in weather that’s projected to be windy and rainy with a high of 40 (RealFeel of 26, whatever that means), then I won’t be able to explain it to you. And let’s not even get into why I’ll not only be there, but I’ll be legitimately fired up about it. The best answer I can offer you is likely to be tremendously unsatisfying: I’m a Red Sox fan. If you’re a fan, that’ll be enough. If you’re not, well, there’s not much more I can tell you.
Huge, massive thanks to my Dad, AKA sogsr, for securing me the pictured tickets to Monday’s game. For those of you that are unfamiliar with the market for Sox tickets, it’s somewhat easier to lay your hands on a piece of the True Cross than it is a ticket that gets you into Fenway. Despite the almost overwhelming scarcity, however, thanks to Dad I now find myself in possession (see right) of four tickets to Monday’s game.
Monday, many of you probably weren’t aware, is also Patriot’s Day. While it means little to other regions of the country, in Boston it means an early Red Sox game and the running of the Boston marathon. Think traffic, and lots of it. Businesses closing down early. A Back Bay that’s more barrier than street. A fair amount of drinking. And so on. For the first time in a couple of years, I’ll be a part of all of that.
The basic elements of the plan are this: Sunday night, I’m on a JetBlue red eye that will drop into Portland, ME in the morning. From there, I’ll drive up to the family compound, and catch up on any and all necessary sleep. Following that, I’ll either a.) drive down to Boston and spend the night with friends, or b.) get up at some unholy hour to make it to the park before gametime. If all goes according to plan – read: no rainouts – I’ll be watching Julian Tavarez of the Boston Red Sox (instead of Daisuke Matsuzaka, in a cruel twist of fate) start against the (Anaheim, LA, whatever) Angel’s Good Weaver (as opposed to his brother, Bad Weaver) around 10 AM Monday morning (not a typo, the game is actually at 10).
Not a favorable matchup for the good guys, but speaking as someone who saw Jeff Burkett (almost more notable for his bowling prowess than pitching ability at the time) beat Tim Hudson (who, rumor had it, had been out in Government center the night before) in a playoff game, I’m aware that anything can and does happen. And in a favorable twist of fate, at least two of the three folks I attended that game with will be there with me. Following the game, I’ll probably adjourn first to the Cask ‘N Flagon across the street from Fenway where a friend of mine is working, and from there to meet up with other friends who have relatives running the marathon.
At the conclusion of the day’s festivities, I’ll either stay over in Boston or head back up to Maine, depending on a couple of as yet undetermined variables. I’ll be around and working Tuesday morning, then catching an afternoon flight back to Denver.
So, to review: massive crowds, two four hour flights, transit to and from Maine, a Day After Tomorrow weather forecast, and certifiably crazy Julian Tavarez starting the game = one very happy camper. The moral of the story? It’s good to be a Sox fan. Even when you don’t think it is.
