It has been 25 years since I walked across a platform in June and stepped out into a bigger world. There has been many a mile and more than a few adventures between then and now. Though some of it seems like yesterday, many of those memories are worn and faded, old Polaroids with a ghostly white film blurring the scene. Somewhere in a closet, crammed into the bottom of a drawer, I have little captured moments of times and days gone by, of younger, less-weathered people. Those moments are what makes us us. They are nice to look at some times in order to remember but I do not wish to revisit them.
Recently I received an invitation to attend a reunion to recount those glorious days of my youth and to mingle once again with children from classrooms past all grown up. It was not an avenue I wished to cruise along and so I quietly passed on the event. The faces now are that of strangers. Too many years and too miles have come and gone. There are worlds and families and experiences between the two dates. Whole lives have been born and lived and lost between then and now. A person can not recount a life inside of one night and I did not wish to try. I am not one for hugs and handshakes and rooms filled with pretend smiles (really I'm not one for rooms filled, period).
A long time ago I once wrote "remember when we were all friends" and it still stands true today. We come into our lives as babies filled with wonder and awe. We are let loose into the world as not much more than toddlers to attend school and meet the first people outside of our families. In this new world we form our first real friendships and watch each other grow. The process of learning to navigate this complicated world of friends continues through until puberty and hormones and competition and stress and all the wonderful things brought on by teenage angst begin to set in. The mean things, the selfish things, the only things inside our own individual bubbles are what matters. Somewhere, in those days, in those actions, we stopped being the same friends from the playground. We were teenagers and knew it all and refused to step back to see what a small picture we were in the collage of life. In the end, we make choices to stay in touch with who we think we would like to and then we head out across the platform into a bigger world but we are not all friends any longer.
Looking out a frost-covered window at the snow glistening in the moonlight, I was asked by the planner of the reunion about attending. I simply replied to her that I would gladly go to dinner with her and her husband (both faces from playgrounds past) and talk of our paths to this place but that I had no intention of visiting with a group of strangers, to drink and tell lies and play pretend. There are those that I think of from time to time and hope they are doing well and there are those that I truly am proud to have been a part of their lives. Most know who they are. We may not talk as often as we like but we pick up where we left off without a hitch whenever we get together no matter the time between.
Each of these people and the moments we shared are bricks in the foundation of my life. Some are cornerstones, important pieces, others just bricks, and some are the mortar that hold it all together. Throughout the years the foundation grows into a building, a home, a family, and a life. I take care of the solid cornerstones. I discard the broken bricks and replace them with new ones. And I repair the cracked ones, giving them the care they need from time to time. And the truly special ones reside beside my fireplace so that we may always have a warm place to sit and talk and remember.
Thursday, April 2, 2015
Thursday, March 19, 2015
More Than Frost in the Valley
The roads were winding and snow covered. The creek alongside the final stretch of road was frozen thick with miniature icebergs jammed tight. As the sun disappeared into a cavernous darkness, the trees tucked in close and the road became a tunnel of pitch black. Our headlights danced against the snowy walls that bracketed the road and rose higher than our mirrors. The sense of adventure grew in the backseat and could be felt from the cars that followed our tracks through the snow. It seemed like forever before the trees relented and the faint glow of a visitor center could be seen through the army of trunks. The entrance to our destination stood proudly in a field of solid white. We had reached Frost Valley.
This expedition was the brainstorm of my children and their Girl Scout troop. Instead of a breezy campsite during the blossoming season of Spring or a sweatshirt-clad romp through the leaf piles of Fall, this adventurous group of girls had decided that their skills needed to be tested during a frigid weekend in February. They would dare the dark, slippery mountain back roads of the Catskills to arrive on Friday night at a stunning YMCA camp hidden away in Frost Valley. They would bunk in an old cabin and prepare for a weekend of snowflake fun.
Before they were even unpacked, the girls were covered from head to toe in insulating layers and out the door. Following a glistening trail of lights partially buried in knee-deep snow, they found an old-fashioned sled hill that was equipped with tubes and a long run out across a frozen field. A stiff breeze supplied enough chill to freeze my breath before it could escape my beard. Icicles formed on my mustache as I stood watching the kids hoot and holler as they dropped down the hill into the darkness and across the moonlit field. A few runs down the hill was enough to generate a thirst for warm cocoa and perhaps a brownie and a visit to the cafeteria of the camp did not disappoint.
Though a mix of a cabin and tweenage girls does not make for a good night's sleep, my secluded room on the far side of the camp in an old estate that once stood as the main focus of the property before it had been donated to the YMCA was a quiet respite from the incessant giggling. I bunked with a couple of other "do-dads" that had accompanied the troop and we sat up into the wee hours debating the woes of the world. It was almost as if we had been transported back into one of the black and white portraits on the wall, pipe-smoking gentlemen smartly clad in wool sitting in the conservatory pontificating at length on the works of Leopold or the elegance of a dry fly drifting on the trout waters that burble near the place.
Saturday morning found us bright and bushy tailed at our assigned tables in the cafeteria, though the girls and our corresponding wives/troop leaders did not look as well-rested. The day ahead had come with a warning of constant outdoor activity in which the cold would sap away any energy left over from the prior night quite efficiently. In this the camp did not disappoint. The hours prior to lunch were a whirlwind of broomball (a skateless version of hockey played on a frozen pond swept clean of snow) and cross-country skiing and short hikes between each activity. With lunch came a break for some indoor crafts and nature education seminars, a time to refuel and re-energize for the afternoon of more tubing and more snow. The lack of sleep began to creep in but most of the girls refused to waste their adventure on sitting in the lodge and playing board games. The evening wound down with a fireside song session before an exhausted trudge back to the cabin (or a gleeful stroll back to the estate for a warm shower and sip of a more enlightened beverage while discussing the journeys of the day and the more accurate depiction of temperature through the use of Celsius).
Our final morning, bright on Sunday, brought an introduction to ice fishing and a crew of girls bunched in groups of three huddled around holes drilled through foot thick ice attempting to peer into the depths of the lake while awaiting a lethargic bite from a sleepy fish. The best part of the trip came while hiking along a ridge in the woods surrounding the property. Most of the group dared the wilds to find themselves greeted by a cable bridge set 40 feet above a small waterfall. One by one they had to cross the bridge in order to continue their journey, their feet balancing on a small cable barely an inch in diameter. Some skipped joyfully across while others were more tentative, carefully testing their limits, but all made it across. The only regret of the weekend before packing up for the sleepy ride home was that some of the leaders, in their own refusal to step outside comfort zones, failed to push a handful of scouts out of the cafeteria and into the experiences they had traveled more than two hours to participate in. Sometimes it is not about the apprehensions of the adults but the strength they project in conquering their own fears to the young women they have been charged to lead. One does not lead from behind nor from a cozy bench in the cafeteria while a fantastically frigid world of new adventures awaits beyond the window. A point that should be strongly discussed amongst the leather-bound tomes of the estate's library while we wait for the girls to pack.
This expedition was the brainstorm of my children and their Girl Scout troop. Instead of a breezy campsite during the blossoming season of Spring or a sweatshirt-clad romp through the leaf piles of Fall, this adventurous group of girls had decided that their skills needed to be tested during a frigid weekend in February. They would dare the dark, slippery mountain back roads of the Catskills to arrive on Friday night at a stunning YMCA camp hidden away in Frost Valley. They would bunk in an old cabin and prepare for a weekend of snowflake fun.
Before they were even unpacked, the girls were covered from head to toe in insulating layers and out the door. Following a glistening trail of lights partially buried in knee-deep snow, they found an old-fashioned sled hill that was equipped with tubes and a long run out across a frozen field. A stiff breeze supplied enough chill to freeze my breath before it could escape my beard. Icicles formed on my mustache as I stood watching the kids hoot and holler as they dropped down the hill into the darkness and across the moonlit field. A few runs down the hill was enough to generate a thirst for warm cocoa and perhaps a brownie and a visit to the cafeteria of the camp did not disappoint.
Though a mix of a cabin and tweenage girls does not make for a good night's sleep, my secluded room on the far side of the camp in an old estate that once stood as the main focus of the property before it had been donated to the YMCA was a quiet respite from the incessant giggling. I bunked with a couple of other "do-dads" that had accompanied the troop and we sat up into the wee hours debating the woes of the world. It was almost as if we had been transported back into one of the black and white portraits on the wall, pipe-smoking gentlemen smartly clad in wool sitting in the conservatory pontificating at length on the works of Leopold or the elegance of a dry fly drifting on the trout waters that burble near the place.
Saturday morning found us bright and bushy tailed at our assigned tables in the cafeteria, though the girls and our corresponding wives/troop leaders did not look as well-rested. The day ahead had come with a warning of constant outdoor activity in which the cold would sap away any energy left over from the prior night quite efficiently. In this the camp did not disappoint. The hours prior to lunch were a whirlwind of broomball (a skateless version of hockey played on a frozen pond swept clean of snow) and cross-country skiing and short hikes between each activity. With lunch came a break for some indoor crafts and nature education seminars, a time to refuel and re-energize for the afternoon of more tubing and more snow. The lack of sleep began to creep in but most of the girls refused to waste their adventure on sitting in the lodge and playing board games. The evening wound down with a fireside song session before an exhausted trudge back to the cabin (or a gleeful stroll back to the estate for a warm shower and sip of a more enlightened beverage while discussing the journeys of the day and the more accurate depiction of temperature through the use of Celsius).
Our final morning, bright on Sunday, brought an introduction to ice fishing and a crew of girls bunched in groups of three huddled around holes drilled through foot thick ice attempting to peer into the depths of the lake while awaiting a lethargic bite from a sleepy fish. The best part of the trip came while hiking along a ridge in the woods surrounding the property. Most of the group dared the wilds to find themselves greeted by a cable bridge set 40 feet above a small waterfall. One by one they had to cross the bridge in order to continue their journey, their feet balancing on a small cable barely an inch in diameter. Some skipped joyfully across while others were more tentative, carefully testing their limits, but all made it across. The only regret of the weekend before packing up for the sleepy ride home was that some of the leaders, in their own refusal to step outside comfort zones, failed to push a handful of scouts out of the cafeteria and into the experiences they had traveled more than two hours to participate in. Sometimes it is not about the apprehensions of the adults but the strength they project in conquering their own fears to the young women they have been charged to lead. One does not lead from behind nor from a cozy bench in the cafeteria while a fantastically frigid world of new adventures awaits beyond the window. A point that should be strongly discussed amongst the leather-bound tomes of the estate's library while we wait for the girls to pack.
Friday, March 13, 2015
Nike, the West Coast, and Money Spent
Since the new year came ringing in, life has been a little hectic. My job duties expanded for two months to include being on call seven days a week in order to meet the needs of the omnipotent entity known as Air Jordan (or maybe Nike, or is it professional basketball, or FootLocker, or most likely, just sneakers). It was amazing to see and experience the obscene expense put forth to build "pop-up" stores custom-designed to showcase the most recent sneaker trends rolling out for the NBA All-Star game in NYC. There were lights and mannequins and custom furniture and displays. There were sneaker lotteries and high-security, undisclosed locations to store the footwear treasure. My small part was to be ready at a moment's notice to run a missing piece or some crucial part into one of the many job sites. Some days it was a constant stream of freight going in and out of the city. On other days, it was 12 hours of watching the phone and waiting for it to ring. The phone was not allowed to be left alone at any time, just in case. The hours and days ran right into one another. Seven days a week allows for a person to not even realize what day it is because the weekend never had the opportunity to lend context to the work week. Who am I to argue, the meter was running and the customer was paying.
And then, without ceremony, the game was over, the sneakers were sold, the hype was gone, and the stores disappeared. Within a week crews dismantled the "pop-ups" and sent them to another happening spot. The existing renovated stores were returned to their former mundane facades. No expense was spared to make everything appear as if the glorious sneakers had never been there. The whole amazing transformation back and forth took place in the dark of night. It was quite a feat of sales magic. And now it is over.
Along the way, I had the opportunity to interact with several West Coast folks. How different they were in there constantly happily apologetic manner. They could not imagine how so many people crammed into the Tri-state area could be so angry all the time while running about in a seemingly endless quest to get somewhere. The frigid weather was always a subject of great interest due mostly to the teams not even having the proper clothing for the climate here. It was actually quite comical how, when stepping back for a moment, my warehouse team fulfilled almost all the stereotypical notions these people brought with them to our coast all the while being the coffee-drinking granola stereotypes of the upper West Coast. The warehouse team that I worked with spent an entire month away from friends and family trapped in an unfamiliar city tethered to a phone and laptop, always on-call without a spare moment to even venture out to take in some of what NYC has to offer. It seemed somehow tragic to be surrounded with so much and not be able to experience any of it. We did have conversations about the differences between coasts and all the land between those coasts. But those snippets were crammed between emails, phone calls, and freight runs and left more questions about the foreign territory out west than answers. Perhaps a road trip is in order with the changing of the seasons.
The job has ended. The All-Stars are gone. All the money has come and gone. Everything is back to normal for now. My life has been returned to its regular schedule.
And then, without ceremony, the game was over, the sneakers were sold, the hype was gone, and the stores disappeared. Within a week crews dismantled the "pop-ups" and sent them to another happening spot. The existing renovated stores were returned to their former mundane facades. No expense was spared to make everything appear as if the glorious sneakers had never been there. The whole amazing transformation back and forth took place in the dark of night. It was quite a feat of sales magic. And now it is over.
Along the way, I had the opportunity to interact with several West Coast folks. How different they were in there constantly happily apologetic manner. They could not imagine how so many people crammed into the Tri-state area could be so angry all the time while running about in a seemingly endless quest to get somewhere. The frigid weather was always a subject of great interest due mostly to the teams not even having the proper clothing for the climate here. It was actually quite comical how, when stepping back for a moment, my warehouse team fulfilled almost all the stereotypical notions these people brought with them to our coast all the while being the coffee-drinking granola stereotypes of the upper West Coast. The warehouse team that I worked with spent an entire month away from friends and family trapped in an unfamiliar city tethered to a phone and laptop, always on-call without a spare moment to even venture out to take in some of what NYC has to offer. It seemed somehow tragic to be surrounded with so much and not be able to experience any of it. We did have conversations about the differences between coasts and all the land between those coasts. But those snippets were crammed between emails, phone calls, and freight runs and left more questions about the foreign territory out west than answers. Perhaps a road trip is in order with the changing of the seasons.
The job has ended. The All-Stars are gone. All the money has come and gone. Everything is back to normal for now. My life has been returned to its regular schedule.
Tuesday, December 2, 2014
Night Lights
Tales from a Hunting Journal
(Part XII)
My nephew, my brother's son, does not visit much. He is chained to the suburbs by parents unwilling to make the trip to visit Grandma and Grandpa. My brother likes to forget about the outdoors and our family traditions. His son only hears whispers of the stories of a young man afield. But every once in awhile, on a rare occasion, I kidnap my nephew and allow him to explore a whole new world, free of mini-vans and soccer practice. He gets to play freely amongst the trees.
And so shortly after Christmas, my brother and his family visit a weekend or two after the holiday to celebrate. I told my nephew I would drive him back to "civilization" so he could spend an extra night at Grandma's house. Part of the deal, however, was that the night had to be spent coyote hunting. This deal did not go over well with my daughters as they had not yet gone coyote hunting and desperately wanted to. Grandpa jumped at the chance to hunt with his grandson and a sleepover quickly turned into an event.
The night was cold and clear as we packed the side-by-side for the trip to our set-up. Grandpa wanted to sit up in the two-man stand so Justyn wouldn't be so apprehensive (coyotes don't climb ladders, do they?). We bumped along the woods trails, eerily looking like a dark-leaved tunnel in the UTV's headlights, not saying a word, Justyn shivering a little with cold and excitement. We parked and trucked through the snow into the stand. I hunkered down about 35 yards in front and off to the side with caller in hand. Sitting in a lawn chair, back to a tree, as the caller wailed like a wounded rabbit, I tried to pierce the night's shroud with my stare. A handful of times I thought I saw shadows move and I felt as if Justyn and Grandpa were using me for bait. Several eternities passed in between scanning the field for glowing eyes. The excitement and enjoyment were tangible, I couldn't tell if I were more excited because of the hunt or who was hunting. The whole thing seemed so joyously surreal.
Before the excitement wore off and turned into frigid boredom, Grandpa flipped on the spotlight and took a poke at an imaginary critter. Justyn got to hold the spotlight, to hear a shot, to smell the gunpowder in the air. We gathered our gear and walked out into the field. Justyn led the way looking for the stealthy creature that was hiding amongst the pines, flitting in the shadows. Not able to find a drop of blood or ounce of fur, we headed back to our rig and followed the drifting woodsmoke back home to a warm fire and hot chocolate.
Forever turned out to be two hours of sitting and it was perfect.
Monday, December 1, 2014
The Flights of Fall
Tales from a Hunting Journal
(Part XI)
The third time wasn't a charm, it was magical. Our party of four was only three, Chris Hubert, Dad, and I. I had tried all the old boys but age or whatever held them at home, more the better looking back now. I asked Big Chris Simpson, who declined because of layoffs and the recession and such. But I had never mentioned money and never really cared too much about it. The money had already been taken out of the bank and the hunt was already paid for. The two Chris's, Dad, and I got packed for a day afield, a rainy day as usual.
The rain came down and the wind howled along the highway as we drove the lonely road from NJ to Starlight. Hubert and I talked in spurts more to keep us awake than to discuss anything. Our early morning arrival saw a brush of snow that didn't linger and a warm couch that quietly welcomed our work-weary bodies. Big Chris, not knowing how hunting works, was right on time, 7:15 on the dot. Dad was ready for all of us with guns, vests, and everything but ammo laid out on the floor. A quick ATV ride to the cabin to retrieve a couple of boxes of ammo in the crisp morning air woke me up and readied me for the day's adventure.
The day was the normal rainy day with the extra bonus of gusting winds thrown in for good measure. We waited a bit for the wind to die and rain to subside to a sporadic drizzle and the birds were deployed. A short walk up the hill and we were hunting with our guide and his dog. The briars pricked as we plodded through the fields. The wind stung our faces with little needles of rain. The shotguns bit our shoulders with strong recoil as feathers and laughter filled the air.
Ten out of twelve we shot. A good result for a foursome that hadn't hunted together before and had never practiced. Dad blew through boxes of 12 gauge as fast as his 1100 could spit them out. I enjoyed lingering a little longer on target with my faithful single shot, the stovepipe. We all downed birds and we all missed the two that got away. The morning blew by, filled with the ribbing, the ball-busting, the gruff jabs at the lack of accuracy, hearty laughter that cleanses the soul. It truly felt like "hunting camp".
We have planned to meet like this every year. It would be good to have that magic to look forward to, to hold on to, to believe in again. Hopefully the magic won't die. I have no doubt that the magic is there. This time of year always proves it. The faces and fields may change but the magic always reappears. I am thankful for that.
Monday, November 10, 2014
The Forgotten Day
The Forgotten Day
It should be right behind the Fourth of July. It should be held in higher regard than all the rest. There is no reason for it to be forgotten. Parades and ceremonies and fireworks simply are not enough. This is a day to truly be thankful, a day that should be met with football and giant dinners and family gatherings. It is the one day that should never be taken for granted. Today is Veteran's Day.
The company I work for, like most companies theses days, does not recognize today as a day worthy of remembrance. It is a normal Friday. The union, as willing to accept dues as they are to concede recognized holidays, does not consider today a day worth fighting for. I wear the American flag stitched upon my work clothes, but can not recognize the heroes of this country without a sick day. The men and women who have fought and sacrificed for my rights and freedoms are not worthy of a day of recognition according to many, my company, it's customers, Local 807, and most of the rest of country included. The beginning of Summer is more important. The "unofficial" end of Summer is more important. A fictitious fat man in a red suit is more important. Watching a giant ball descend a pole while partying with friends is much more important. The veterans of this country are not as important as these things. However, without them we would not celebrate such frivolous matters.
For many years, I hunted with my father on Veteran's Day. We used to meet in the morning and drive to the Delaware Water Gap and walk the fields there in search of small game, pheasants and squirrels mostly. We never mentioned that it was a holiday. We just walked the woods together. Spending time together was enough, no hoopla. As my parents left New Jersey to reside in the slower pace of Pennsylvania, my father and I still made plans to meet on Veteran's Day to walk the same fields. Times have changed since those youthful hunts. The holiday calendar at work has grown lean on what is considered an important or allowable day off. I, at one time, resorted to sick days to keep the tradition of hunting with my dad on Veteran's Day going. Recently, I have used seniority and vacation to ensure that this day is spent with family.
My father is a disabled veteran of the Vietnam Conflict. He carries many scars of all kinds with him. There were years when those scars took their toll not only on him. I lost some years to those scars, too. The loss was of time and chances to make memories and I refuse to allow that to ever happen again. My children take pride in the fact that their grandfather was a soldier and fought for this country. I will not allow them to lose the opportunity to make memories of time spent with their grandfather. They proudly celebrate this day knowing they are, in some small part, connected to it. It is his day and he should have it. He has surely earned it and continues to earn it, everyday.
My story is only one of thousands, perhaps millions by now. My experiences of the effect of war and the cost of politics and freedom are merely a blade of grass in a meadow of such experiences. All of those stories deserve a place, a day of recognition, a moment to reflect and remember, and a small word of thanks. These stories are attached to lives, to families. They can not be allowed to fade from the memory of a nation. They have sacrificed for every American. They have earned their day.
Who wants to be the one that takes their day away? Who wants to be the one that allows their memories to fade? Who wants to be the one that keeps their stories from being told?
It will not be me. Mine is but a small inconvenience compared to their scarifices. It will not be me.
The company I work for, like most companies theses days, does not recognize today as a day worthy of remembrance. It is a normal Friday. The union, as willing to accept dues as they are to concede recognized holidays, does not consider today a day worth fighting for. I wear the American flag stitched upon my work clothes, but can not recognize the heroes of this country without a sick day. The men and women who have fought and sacrificed for my rights and freedoms are not worthy of a day of recognition according to many, my company, it's customers, Local 807, and most of the rest of country included. The beginning of Summer is more important. The "unofficial" end of Summer is more important. A fictitious fat man in a red suit is more important. Watching a giant ball descend a pole while partying with friends is much more important. The veterans of this country are not as important as these things. However, without them we would not celebrate such frivolous matters.
For many years, I hunted with my father on Veteran's Day. We used to meet in the morning and drive to the Delaware Water Gap and walk the fields there in search of small game, pheasants and squirrels mostly. We never mentioned that it was a holiday. We just walked the woods together. Spending time together was enough, no hoopla. As my parents left New Jersey to reside in the slower pace of Pennsylvania, my father and I still made plans to meet on Veteran's Day to walk the same fields. Times have changed since those youthful hunts. The holiday calendar at work has grown lean on what is considered an important or allowable day off. I, at one time, resorted to sick days to keep the tradition of hunting with my dad on Veteran's Day going. Recently, I have used seniority and vacation to ensure that this day is spent with family.
My father is a disabled veteran of the Vietnam Conflict. He carries many scars of all kinds with him. There were years when those scars took their toll not only on him. I lost some years to those scars, too. The loss was of time and chances to make memories and I refuse to allow that to ever happen again. My children take pride in the fact that their grandfather was a soldier and fought for this country. I will not allow them to lose the opportunity to make memories of time spent with their grandfather. They proudly celebrate this day knowing they are, in some small part, connected to it. It is his day and he should have it. He has surely earned it and continues to earn it, everyday.
My story is only one of thousands, perhaps millions by now. My experiences of the effect of war and the cost of politics and freedom are merely a blade of grass in a meadow of such experiences. All of those stories deserve a place, a day of recognition, a moment to reflect and remember, and a small word of thanks. These stories are attached to lives, to families. They can not be allowed to fade from the memory of a nation. They have sacrificed for every American. They have earned their day.
Who wants to be the one that takes their day away? Who wants to be the one that allows their memories to fade? Who wants to be the one that keeps their stories from being told?
It will not be me. Mine is but a small inconvenience compared to their scarifices. It will not be me.
Another year has passed and the ranks of the forgotten have grown. The VA hospital and its tale of woes shines brightly on my TV. I will not be the one to forget and so I continue to present this work each year.
Thursday, September 11, 2014
Yawkey Way
The street is small but all the stands and activity and banners make it seem even tighter. The intersection where we had parked led either down the shadowed tight street or along a sunlit walk dotted with statutes. The anchor of that intersection was a ticket booth and entrance gate that stood tall yet oddly inviting, as if to keep the people, and anything else, in more than the crowd gathering outside out. We were a part of that gathering crowd, lining up to buy a ticket to visit this historic structure, the oldest ballpark in the nation.
Fenway Park sits on Yawkey Way in Boston, MA. It's mailing address is 4 Yawkey Way and that street is filled with the park's "official" store, concession stands, and banners touting the home of the Boston Red Sox. The store is the meeting place for tour-goers and baseball fans and history buffs to become acquainted with their tour guide for the day. And ours was an old gentleman steeped in both Boston tradition and baseball history. He was accompanied by two younger ushers that would keep us on our route. Armed with a portable loudspeaker, he greeted our group with a smile and joke and small history lesson about this nationally-recorded landmark. And then our journey began.
Through the service gates we flowed. Down into the bottom hallway dotted with concession stands and food carts and medical golf carts. We were in the famous hallway that has been used in a whole slew of movies, most notably "The Town" and even a zombie B-movie. Prominent among all of the signs and banners and menus was one frame filled with a Boston Red Sox jersey with the Boston area code 617 adorning it and a B Strong patch. It is there as a reminder and memorial to the victims of the Marathon Bombing in 2013. The tour silently passes the jersey and climbs a short staircase out a tunnel that leads to daylight and the interior of the ballpark. Everywhere around us is green. We are swallowed by it, blinded by it, thoroughly engulfed. The seats are painted green. The infrastructure is dark green. The green padded walls fight to contain the perfectly manicured grass, which is the color of green, green grass only brighter, sparkling, almost to the point of hurting our eyes. Our guide takes up a position at the front of the bleachers so that we may all sit and listen as he retells stories of days gone past when there was nothing but swamp and mud on the spot we now occupy. There is the story of the walls burning down because of a forgotten cigar that lit a blaze. Another story of the morse code hidden among the scoreboard commemorating the owners of the team. The mysterious ladder hanging in the middle of the "Green Monsta" with no top nor bottom has a story. Babe Ruth, Boston, New York, Ted Williams, announcers, and even fans (The Royal Rooters), all have myths and tales and legends and curses. The ballpark (don't call it a stadium or an old gentleman from Boston will visit you with a baseball bat and a hard lesson about "real" baseball) is filled with all of these and more.
Our heads swimming with tales of times long past, we climb to the top of the Green Monster, a harrowing green monolith in left field that dares hitters to try to sail a ball over it. We are told that balls careen off the wall at over 90 mph and with the right angle a ball will sail clear out of the park if it gets over the Monster and down to the street and famous tavern below. The view from up there is spectacular, the best of any ballpark, straight down the third base line to home plate. The kids sit in the coveted seats and imagine a game taking place.
We head away from the Monster and toward the press boxes. Lining the walls are a collection of Sports Illustrated covers, every one that a Red Sox player has ever been on. Then comes the Hall of Fame and plaques to commemorate every Red Sox milestone. Finally, before reaching the booths of all the TV and radio announcers, we see old jerseys dating back to an original one from the turn of last century, over 100 years of baseball. We visit the behind-the-scenes workings of the park and head toward an exit in right field. On the way we pass the only red seat in the place, deep in the bleachers of right. It was placed there, among the sea of green, to note the longest home run hit here, 502 feet. It was hit by Ted Williams and the distance was measured accurately by the old man with the straw hat that dozed in that seat when the home run knocked him in the head. To this day, the family of Mr. Boucher, the man with the straw hat, return every so often to visit that historic seat.
The final stop before leaving the park was the Royal Rooters Club. It is a pub, a museum, a place of solace for any Red Sox fan. It is a giant room filled with memorabilia, gloves, bats, jerseys, pictures, and old guides wearing multiple World Series rings now that the curse has been lifted. The place is a summation of the ballpark, of the town. Fenway Park is the history of America's sport. It does more than house a baseball team, it holds the story of baseball itself. Among the walls and concrete and wood, ghosts of glorious days gone by walk, stories litter the stands like peanut shells, myths hide in every nook of the place. In some places you can smell the old leather and hear the faint roar of crowds lingering on the breeze. This is what baseball was, is, and always should be, a landmark that refuses to expand to meet the salary demands of the spoiled children playing now but holds true to the history contained within it. And Boston, a town that supports, with hard-headed determination, that sort of die-hard tradition. This is a landmark that should be visited by any fan of any sport to see how legends are built, for a lifetime.
Fenway Park sits on Yawkey Way in Boston, MA. It's mailing address is 4 Yawkey Way and that street is filled with the park's "official" store, concession stands, and banners touting the home of the Boston Red Sox. The store is the meeting place for tour-goers and baseball fans and history buffs to become acquainted with their tour guide for the day. And ours was an old gentleman steeped in both Boston tradition and baseball history. He was accompanied by two younger ushers that would keep us on our route. Armed with a portable loudspeaker, he greeted our group with a smile and joke and small history lesson about this nationally-recorded landmark. And then our journey began.
Through the service gates we flowed. Down into the bottom hallway dotted with concession stands and food carts and medical golf carts. We were in the famous hallway that has been used in a whole slew of movies, most notably "The Town" and even a zombie B-movie. Prominent among all of the signs and banners and menus was one frame filled with a Boston Red Sox jersey with the Boston area code 617 adorning it and a B Strong patch. It is there as a reminder and memorial to the victims of the Marathon Bombing in 2013. The tour silently passes the jersey and climbs a short staircase out a tunnel that leads to daylight and the interior of the ballpark. Everywhere around us is green. We are swallowed by it, blinded by it, thoroughly engulfed. The seats are painted green. The infrastructure is dark green. The green padded walls fight to contain the perfectly manicured grass, which is the color of green, green grass only brighter, sparkling, almost to the point of hurting our eyes. Our guide takes up a position at the front of the bleachers so that we may all sit and listen as he retells stories of days gone past when there was nothing but swamp and mud on the spot we now occupy. There is the story of the walls burning down because of a forgotten cigar that lit a blaze. Another story of the morse code hidden among the scoreboard commemorating the owners of the team. The mysterious ladder hanging in the middle of the "Green Monsta" with no top nor bottom has a story. Babe Ruth, Boston, New York, Ted Williams, announcers, and even fans (The Royal Rooters), all have myths and tales and legends and curses. The ballpark (don't call it a stadium or an old gentleman from Boston will visit you with a baseball bat and a hard lesson about "real" baseball) is filled with all of these and more.
Our heads swimming with tales of times long past, we climb to the top of the Green Monster, a harrowing green monolith in left field that dares hitters to try to sail a ball over it. We are told that balls careen off the wall at over 90 mph and with the right angle a ball will sail clear out of the park if it gets over the Monster and down to the street and famous tavern below. The view from up there is spectacular, the best of any ballpark, straight down the third base line to home plate. The kids sit in the coveted seats and imagine a game taking place.
We head away from the Monster and toward the press boxes. Lining the walls are a collection of Sports Illustrated covers, every one that a Red Sox player has ever been on. Then comes the Hall of Fame and plaques to commemorate every Red Sox milestone. Finally, before reaching the booths of all the TV and radio announcers, we see old jerseys dating back to an original one from the turn of last century, over 100 years of baseball. We visit the behind-the-scenes workings of the park and head toward an exit in right field. On the way we pass the only red seat in the place, deep in the bleachers of right. It was placed there, among the sea of green, to note the longest home run hit here, 502 feet. It was hit by Ted Williams and the distance was measured accurately by the old man with the straw hat that dozed in that seat when the home run knocked him in the head. To this day, the family of Mr. Boucher, the man with the straw hat, return every so often to visit that historic seat.
The final stop before leaving the park was the Royal Rooters Club. It is a pub, a museum, a place of solace for any Red Sox fan. It is a giant room filled with memorabilia, gloves, bats, jerseys, pictures, and old guides wearing multiple World Series rings now that the curse has been lifted. The place is a summation of the ballpark, of the town. Fenway Park is the history of America's sport. It does more than house a baseball team, it holds the story of baseball itself. Among the walls and concrete and wood, ghosts of glorious days gone by walk, stories litter the stands like peanut shells, myths hide in every nook of the place. In some places you can smell the old leather and hear the faint roar of crowds lingering on the breeze. This is what baseball was, is, and always should be, a landmark that refuses to expand to meet the salary demands of the spoiled children playing now but holds true to the history contained within it. And Boston, a town that supports, with hard-headed determination, that sort of die-hard tradition. This is a landmark that should be visited by any fan of any sport to see how legends are built, for a lifetime.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)