Fenway Pahk trumps Yankees' crumbling yard

BOSTON – My buddy Jon text-messaged me on Saturday, May 17: “Woohoo! Stars beat Detroit! Did you see that pass between the legs?” I had to fire one back to him from my grandstand seat: “I heard they won. I missed it. Nearly caught Papi’s 3-run shot over the Green Monster instead.”

The Dallas Stars had just beat the Red Wings 3-1 for the first time at Joe Louis Arena with Marty Turco in goal to force a sixth game in the NHL Western Conference Finals. Stars forward Brad Richards put a beautiful pass through his legs on a breakaway to Trevor Daley to take a 1-0 lead. But I was too preoccupied trying to sing in tune to Neil Diamond’s “Sweet Caroline” during the middle of the eighth inning at Fenway Park. My dad to my left along the third base line had long given up staying in key, but he could still keep grooving along to the music.

We finished the first period of the game at a bar outside Fenway but had too much baseball on the brain to worry about the next two frames. The Boston Red Sox polishing off the Milwaukee Brewers 5-3 in the front end of a sunny, 65-degree double-header provided us with all the athletic stimulating we needed. Daisuke Matzusaka fanned six Brewers for the win; David Ortiz, Mike Cameron, and reigning NL rookie-of-the-year Ryan Braun all smashed the ball over the Green Monster in left field; and Jonathan Papelbon trotted on in the ninth inning to the tune of “Wild Thing,” then gave up the bomb to Braun before picking up his 12th save.

The Red Sox faithful basked in their first win in five games. The 37,409 fans merrily poured out of the ball yard onto Yawkey Way with sheer joy. Dad and I strolled over to Cheers to celebrate. I took a long draw of my Guinness and thought back to Friday night’s rainout of the New York Mets at New York Yankees at Yankee Stadium. When I came to, I noticed the framed Sam Malone Red Sox jersey hanging behind Dad and instantly decided I was now a Red Sox fan.

Months ago, my dad and I planned a trip to New England. We would get off the plane in New York, head over to the House that Ruth Built, check out Monument Park and take in a Subway Series game. We figured, “Hell, we’re all the way up here. Might as well see Fenway, too.” And so it was that Saturday we’d go to Boston, and Sunday we’d head back to Dallas with a belly-full of beer and a reel of photos of the holy grounds.

The trouble was that rain clouds moved into New England that week. It drizzled all day Friday in the Bronx, so we came in with sourpuss thoughts on the prospects of seeing a game that day. We took in the friezes in center field, saw the monuments to the Mick (Mickey Mantle, our Oklahoma hero), the Babe (Babe Ruth, builder of the house), and the rest of the legends. But ultimately, we ended up in a long, wet line where we met a couple guys on an East Coast ballpark tour with no return plans for the make-up game.

200 miles northeast of Purgatory, Fenway shut down their evening festivities due to the weather. There would be no bad luck in picking the stadium order, just happenstance that we would chose Boston on the heavenly day. So as I little-by-little saw bright red, dark blue, and Irish green colors matriculate to Yawkey Way, I began to see what it truly meant to be a baseball fan.

Tickets in hand, we passed by a small group of scalpers. Dad, ever the deal-maker, had to check out the market. “Whehre ’re yer seats?” one of the scalpers asked.
“Third-base grandstand, a little towards the top in the outfield,” I responded.
He took a look at them and exclaimed, “Oh, those ’re great seats! What’d jue pah fer ’em?”
“About $130 a piece. I know; I got screwed, but we’re from Texas. I had be sure to have tickets.”
“Ya didn’t get screwed! You’re goin’ ta da ballgame!” And that’s right when I figured out that Bostonians were infinitely friendlier than New Yorkers.

We continued on to a packed Red Sawx bar, watched the first period of the Stars game, then headed out to Yawkey Way. You turn the corner and the party hits you like a freight train. The ticket-takers are not at the stadium entrance. They’re in front of Yawkey Way, leading you straight into a beautiful block party. Smells of hot dogs, burgers, popcorn, and beer filled my nose. The blue and red championship banners hung from the stadium walls on the left. A Red Sox memorabilia store opened on the right. From the top of the grandstand you can see a row of giant baseball cards reflecting that day’s starting lineup above the memorabilia store.

I continued around the top of grandstand until I got to the Green Monster. Brewer pitchers were warming up below us to the left of the Monster. From a 15-foot distance I could see the countless dimples put in the sheet-metal wall from years of 310-foot long-balls banging off the 37-foot high left-field wall. A groundskeeper poked his head out of the door Manny Ramirez made famous while using it for restroom breaks.

Which takes me to the grounds crew. I do not exaggerate when I say it is the best ground crew in sports. Tractors did not just comb over the infield and leave it at that. Keepers raked every inch of dirt as if they were PGA Tour caddies. The on-deck circles were not allowed to have a speck of dirt falling into the grass. The batter’s box lines were immaculate. The freshly cut grass made me think back to the playoffs where the crew had cut the Red Sox logo into the entire infield.

The perfect weather starkly contrasted to the dreary, wet evening the previous night at Yankee Stadium. But the sheer size of Yankee Stadium takes you aback. Fenway offered a much more intimate environment. You feel like you could almost touch the players. The right-field grandstand did not seem all that far away from my seat, which were so old perhaps someone watched Babe Ruth pitch from it.

I always had distaste for the millions of Yankee and Red Sox fans around the country (and the world as the Japanese banner ad on the left-center field wall of Yankee Stadium proves). I rejected the supremeness of their rivalry due to my own bias towards Oklahoma-Texas. I halfway understood the Yankee supporters. They’re the winningest major franchise in sports, and everyone loves a winner.

But now I get it. The tradition of their stadiums, the 100 years of franchise rivalry, the fact that the season is not cluttered with other sports, the romanticism of baseball, the natural city rivalry for two of the oldest cities in America. Now that I know it’s the greatest rivalry in sports, now that I’ve seen both stadiums, now that I’ve mingled with both crowds of fans, I’m ready to jump in and pick a side. Let’s go Sawx!