September 5
Riding down Interstate 90 at 70 miles per hour, one worry consumed my mind. I just wanted us to see a good game. The Red Sox had lost nine in a row. The Yankees were once again poised to win it all. Life was as usual, unfair. When I’d ordered the tickets in July, this game on September 5 seemed far away, like a fuzzy dream. I thought for sure we’d be in first place. I was just so sure.
You hear it all the time, but the weather that day really was absolutely perfect: not a single cloud, just blue sky everywhere, and a light breeze. We pulled into the "T" station and waited for the train to take us into Boston. Other diehards boarded with us, decked in their Sox caps or holding gloves.
For awhile I just watched the blur of green through the window as we sped past people’s backyards. I loved this ride. I loved Boston. Other people got on and off but I barely noticed. We were all talking, craning our necks to see each other, lurching slightly with each stop and start.
In Boston outside Fenway Park the streets were teeming with people. You could smell sausages and peanuts. There were children shrieking and vendors yelling and people on cell phones and others sloshing around cups of beer.
We all smushed into each other and made it through the gates. There was this energy that comes from being in a big crowd. Stepping out into the stands, I looked out at the thousands of us, and marveled as I always do at these things: the green of the Fenway grass, the hand-operated scoreboard, and the famous Citgo sign in the distance.
They struck up the notes of the Star Spangled Banner and all of us sang without really listening. Then we plunged into an ugly, sloppy, exciting game. The Red Sox blew a big lead. They botched routine plays. People got restless and rowdy and began booing and chanting. The beach balls came out and so did the wave. We stuffed ourselves with hot dogs and Cracker Jacks and beer and ice cream. The women argued the beauty of Brian Daubach vs. Shea Hillenbrand. Someone hit a home run and we screamed more. During the seventh inning stretch we all sang Neil Diamond’s "Sweet Caroline" at the top of our lungs. "Sweet Caroline, good times never seemed so good..."
At the end – joy! – the Sox actually hung on and won. Yeah, the Yankees were 10 games ahead, but that night for a few minutes it didn’t matter. Plunging back into the crowd, people were fervently hawking "Yankees Suck" shirts. The air was still warm and the night felt alive. It didn’t seem like September. We spilled into the streets, blocking traffic, tripping over curbs as if intoxicated as we headed back to the "T." In the darkness of the ride back home, we fought sleep by talking. I think all of us were tired, but content.
That night only baseball filled my dreams. A game about a ball and a bat made me happy. Losing made me sad.
On September 5, Boston was just a city, and Fenway Park was a place to watch baseball. I saw planes and they were just planes. I disliked New Yorkers. I felt safe to the point of not thinking about feeling safe. On September 5 we were all still sleeping, muddling through that last silly week, still cushioned by all those little cares like bills and vacations and yard work. On September 5 we watched the Red Sox win for the last time, before it didn’t matter anymore.
Back to Other Essays Main Page