Singing in the Rain
By Karlsie
I wanted to believe they would play today -- how often do the fates conspire to have the first opening at the orthopedist be on the first weekday day game? Not only that, my orthopedist is only a hop, skip and t-ride from Fenway. But, like Homer Simpson, I spent this afternoon railing at the skies yelling, "Oh cruel fate, why do you mock me?"
After my late morning orthopedist appointment I leave wearing a silly splint for the next 8 weeks (that means I won't be able to wear my ancient Rawlings glove with the stamped Mickey Mantle endorsement during that time frame), I arrive at Fenway around noontime and have chance to really think about some of the changes that have been happening at Fenway over the past couple of years.
Because I bought a program outside the stadium last week in Baltimore, I decided to buy inside this week and was shocked at the $4 asking price for programs. Quoth the raven, "Eat my shorts," from now on Baseball Underground will get my $2.
One nice thing about the changes, I could eat at Fenway even though it was Passover because I could get steak tips and fries. These weren't just any old tips either - they were juicy and tender and spiced to perfection - unfortunately they were also a bit pricey, but damn they were good. Making my way to my last minute grand stand seat, I realized I was cold. I went downstairs to see how much a blanket cost, balked at the price and filled out the credit card application for the free blanket.
Here's the thing about the credit cards and why I haven't bothered with the current round of fan cards. Remember back in the days before the MLB organization had a stranglehold on everything? Back then, the Red Sox credit card meant using it donated money to the Jimmy Fund - so you were doing a good deed by spending money. I could get behind that and I ask the woman taking the applications about the charity thing. She looks at me blankly and says that "It shows you support your team," (whatever that means) before asking if I prefer a t-shirt or a blanket.
I couldn't believe that was a serious question, but I politely asked for my blanket -- so much for the sick kids.
Topside I wanted to get a sense of whether or not the game was on. Still no official word so I began to chat with an older usher who looked like he had been there for years. He told me umbrellas weren't allowed in the park and I thought he was kidding. I stood for a moment looking out over the tarp on the field and empty box seats when he said, "You're making me look bad."
"You mean you weren't kidding about umbrellas?"
"No, I'm not. You can't have umbrellas in here."
Back down to the concourse to pay $8 for a plain red poncho and tuck away my umbrella with a sigh. At the souvenir stand I find out that they don't have the classic ceramic bobble head dolls anymore, only plastic things. I asked about the bobble ankle doll and the guy shrugs. (I find out, after I get home) that the wives were having a press conference about that while I was freezing my patooties off - whatever a patootie is).
Since it was warmer on the concourse than my seats, I decide to meander around. I don't qualify for the free Red Sox sweatshirt the Globe is giving out because I'm "the ultimate customer" -- meaning I get it home delivered 7 days a week and pay for it via their preferred method. I point out that if I am indeed the "ultimate customer," doesn't that count for something? Apparently not, so I'm still cold, damp and about to go wrap myself in a fleece blanket to watch some soggy boys of summer cheer me up.
Back up top, in my seat, the scoreboard now flashes that they anticipate a 2:00 start time. With another sigh, I head back down to keep warm and watch the brass trio and balloon guy doing their things. I left them tips, if for no other reason than they put on a good show and deserve to make some cash.
I can't get a beer, its Passover, so I'm actually drinking water at a Sox game. It is nice to know that if you want a beer they now serve something other than watered-down college brew. Shaking my head, I head back to my seat to wait. Behind me a mother is making up stories for her kids about the team as they wait as patiently as kids can in these kinds of situations.
At times, one kid or the other will look at the scoreboard and announce how many more minutes to go. By now the park is starting to get a bit crowded and the rain is slowing down to a heavy drizzle.
On the scoreboard and PA system they play the complete version of Mike Oldfield's opus, "Tubular Bells" while showing a history of the Sox type film. My husband calls me to find out the game's status just as they show Tony C. being hit and removed from the field on a stretcher (it still makes me wince when I see it). He isn't interested in that -- just when I think I'll be home for dinner.
By now I've adjusted and readjusted the blanket and I'm freezing. With another resigned sigh, I head back down to the souvenir stand to get a sweatshirt - all the while vowing never to believe a weatherman again when they say warm and rainy. I bite the bullet and pull out my card (not a Red Sox one - if I can't help sick kids by spending money, I'll earn free books) to buy an on-field fleece jersey. To add insult to injury, all he has left is small and XXL. I haven't been small in decades, so I opt for the extra roomy size.
Now I'm warm and I'm set to watch the game and start back to my seats only to have a crowd of people meet me at the walkway. The Sox have just cancelled the game.
At least the pitching staff gets an extra day of much needed rest with two of our starters on the DL. (Hey Schilling, the next time the fans are screaming "pull out" that loudly in the fourth - please listen.)
"Damn," I say out loud, "ten minutes earlier and I wouldn't have bought the damn fleece."
Figuring I won't get this opportunity again for a while, I decide to wander over to Pesky's pole and touch it for good luck. People are signing it, so I borrow a pen and add "Karlsie '05" to the growing number of signatures on there.
By the time I leave the park and walk to the train, most of the crowds are gone. At least half a dozen scalpers ask if I'm selling my ticket. I offer to trade for a Buffett lawn seat but they walk away. The train home has seats available, so I get to sit down for a change -- an unexpectedly pleasant treat.
I know that a reschedule is a tricky thing - both teams are out on the road right now and the next time they meet up in Fenway is the end of May -- during graduation season. In the end, it was a different kind of day at Fenway. Not the one I was expecting or hoping for, but certainly one that I can accept.
