The "It's Spring" Edition of Barstool Friday!

Welcome to Barstool Friday!!!!! It seems that I have been remiss this week, since it is baseball season after all, with no posts to speak of. But I have an legitimate excuse, I've been celebrating spring. I had two firsts of the season this week. I went fly fishing for trout, and I made my first pilgrimage to Fenway of the 2008 season. And as such, I'm going to abandon the usual Barstool Friday form, and wax a bit poetic. You don't have to forgive me, but if you aren't willing to, you might as well stop reading now.

As we walked out of Fenway and onto Lansdowne Wednesday night, I had to smile. Sure, the Red Sox were surrendering a game to the hapless Tigers, and sure it was 60 degrees colder than the last time I was at Fenway, but you can't help but think about how lucky we are in Red Sox Nation. And that's where we're also the most misunderstood. Red Sox fans are the most passionate in baseball, and even though we suffered for so many years, we never stopped believing, deep down inside. That has been rewarded, as we all know, but in the process, Sox fans have been elevated from Loveable Losers to Whiney Winners in the eyes of many. The problem is, those people don't know the true Red Sox Nation, they only know what the media shows them. In becoming media darlings, we have also become fodder for public dislike. Success breeds disdain in sports, more often than not. And that is OK, but maybe I can set the record straight, just a bit.

I've often said that a game at Fenway is a lot like a Grateful Dead show. No matter how hard you try to describe it, there is no way to make the person understand it. Like a Grateful Dead show, you can give them a recording, but all they can see is a baseball game and the fact that the Souvenier Shop does great business. No, the only way to get someone to truly understand a Grateful Dead show was to take them there, and the only way to get someone to understand a Sox game at Fenway is to take them there. Sadly, we can't introduce people to the magic that was a Dead show anymore, and the spin-offs are nowhere near the same experience. But anyone can enjoy a game at Fenway, and they'll all be better for it.

It really starts before you get to the ballpark, just like a Grateful Dead show. The closer you get to Fenway, the higher the energy. The more caps, t-shirts. The more random whoops and calls of "Let's Go Sox!" echo in the air. When you went to a Grateful Dead show, you could start to feel the world changing around you, you knew were entering the Land of Deadheads miles before you arrived. Approaching Fenway is the same. Maybe you're taking the T in, maybe your trip starts on the Red Line. You board the train at Alewife, and scattered along the platform are an array of students, business people, families, and of course, a number of people who you recognize. You recognize them even though you've never met them, because this is Boston (ok, Cambridge) and they are Red Sox fans and you just know that they too are going to the game. Just like you always knew who was going to a Dead show wthout ever speaking to them. Davis, Porter, Harvard. The complexion of the train car is changing, it is decidely more red and blue now. Central, Kendall, Charles/MGH. There is almost a buzz now that you can feel. You're heart rate jumps just a tick or two. Your smile broadens. You can definitely tell the people headed to the game now. They are the only people wearing big grins while stuck in the middle of the daily shuffle of those either oblivious to your journey, or just unable to join you on this trip, this time. I liken this to that last stop at the gas station/convenience store on your way to that Dead show, before you head into the lots. Park Street Station. The Common is above you now, you are steps from the State House, and you don't care. You scale one flight of stairs and willingly cram yourself into the first Green Line car you see. On game days, the Green Line is a zoo. Old, small, not too comfortable, but you just don't care. The Green Line is Fenway. They keep improving it a little bit at a time over the years, trying to make your experience there just a little better, but you don't care, because you know you'd be there anyway. Like the parking lot at Giants Stadium before the show, it can be dirty, hot and crowded, but everybody is dirty, hot and crowded, so somehow this shared experience makes it infinitely more tolerable.

You ascend now into Kenmore Square. The place is alive. Normally just a busy section of city, on game day, the area from Kenmore over the bridge to Lansdowne, Yawkey and the Park represents the heart of Red Sox Nation. At a Dead show, this is that are just around and encompassing Shakedown Street. The area that pulses with a colorful throng, all joined in a single-minded anticipation of the event to come. From the moment you step out into the sun shining down on the exit from the Kenmore T stop, you are immersed. It would be sensory overload if not for the fact that the event itself hightens your awareness, allows you to soak it all in. Hawkers peddle their wares, t-shirts and hats, pennants and Wally dolls. The smell of sausage fills the air, like the egg rolls, burritos and kind grilled cheese of the lots. You stroll over the millions fleeing the city on the Mass Pike, you cross over into the Promised Land. Fenway rises majestically in front of you. In due time, you will pass through it's gates ready to feel the magic. In the mean time, you wander, maybe randomly high-fiving an enthusiastic fan, maybe going into BeerWorks for a brew and a bite to eat. Maybe you go down Yawkey Way, every bit Shakedown Street, the central artery of Red Sox Nation. You look up at the brick facade of old Fenway, you see the banners. You see the one that says 2004, a lump grows in your throat. You see the new one, the one that says 2007, it all still seems almost too good to be true. The crowd swells, the anticipation begins to peak. And then it is time.

Entering Fenway Park is something sublime. I've written about it here before, and I'll re-tell it now. You go through the cursory bag inspection, you get your ticket scanned, you descend into the bowels of the old ball park. It is a little different now, with all of the improvements, but that first stretch of concourse under the grandstands still feels a bit like a dungeon. You file along with tens of thousands of others, weaving your way around the beer lines that extend out into the pathways, around the crowds yearning for their obligatory Fenway Frank. You reach that point. There is the sign for your section. The anticipation crests. You ascend. The light is nearly blinding as your eyes struggle to adjust from the darkness of the underbelly. And then there it is, in all of it's glory...Fenway Park. It seems impossibly green. The field is perfect. The Green Monster looms in left. The Fenway Sound fills your ears. It is a singular sound, there is nothing else like it. It is like when you first enter the three-quarter full venue for that Dead show. There is a sound there that is a combination of all that is happening around you, but it is a sound that is unique to the experience. It cannot be duplicated, but it is one of the finest sounds you will ever hear.

You find your seats, and it doesn't matter that they are half a size to small. The comfort is not in the seats, but in the fact that you are on hallowed grounds. This is the Home of the Boston Red Sox, the Home of Red Sox Nation. And if you never were quite sure if you belonged to the Nation before, you know it now. Like when you were in that Dead show, you were enveloped in one giant group hug, you knew you were one of the Deadheads. It's game time, and from the first pitch, unlike in so many other ballparks, virtually everyone in the Park is tied to every moment. The game goes on, sometimes it is one of those performances that reaches the highest peak, where the Team takes itself, and you too, to another place. Sometimes, they just can't get it done, but it is OK, you love these guys anyway and you know they went out there and gave it up for you, even if it just wasn't their night. Sounds a lot like a Dead show, doesn't it? Through the game, you experience all of those bizarre, cult-ish things that make Fenway, well, Fenway. The still-hand operated scoreboard. The between innings cheer that rises when the scoreboard guy comes out with his ladder and changes the board to reveal that the Yankees are losing. The surreal experience of nearly 40,000 people singing along to Neil Diamond's "Sweet Caroline". And you are immersed in the game, and you are immersed in Fenway Park, and you couldn't imagine anywhere else you'd rather be right at that moment.

Eventually the game will end. You will file out onto Yawkey Way or Lansdowne Street. Maybe you'll stop for a brief moment to take in the statue of the Splendid Splinter, Teddy Ballgame. You might grab one of those famous Fenway sausages, or hit Game On! or the infamous Cask 'n Flagon for a beer. Or maybe you just head back for the trains. But you don't really rush, you're still flying from the Fenway experience. Maybe the Red Sox even just lost, but somehow, it is OK. You just spent the day at Fenway Park. And now, you know how it feels, now you understand. And when someone asks what it was like, you'll say it was great. And then you'll say that there is now way to explain it, really. And you'll say you just have to be there. And you'll smile.











The Yankees come to town tonight. The first Sox-Yankees clash of the season. I can't wait. It's spring.


Enjoy the weekend folks, and as always, have a pint for me.


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