A bottle of dirt
By Karlsie
Taking my 13-year-old son to a game is always an adventure. Armed with 2 fabulous bleacher seats over the Sox bullpen, my son and I headed into Fenway for the final game against the D-Rays in time for batting practice.
We were among the first through the gates and along the wall next to the owners' box so he could watch Big Papi, Millar and Cora taking their practice swings. Assessing the situation, he realized he probably couldn't get to the players easily, so he started by schmoozing Hazel Mae, showing her he was wearing the hat she signed for him earlier this season. He showed her the poster he made asking the Remdawg to wish his aunt a happy birthday and got Hazel to sign that too before she moved on.
Then Johnnie Pesky walked past the growing group of seekers. It was clear he wasn't signing any more autographs so my son yelled out, "You, Jim Lonborg and Carlton Fisk are some of the best old school players ever."
Pesky turned on his heel and yelled back, "Who are you calling old?"
My son replied, "Not old, old school." My son then reeled him in with an explanation of what old school meant. Pesky realized he was hooked and, with a smile, he informed the group of kids holding out items and pens that, because they were such a pain, they'd have to listen to an old man's stories while he signed. As he signed my son's hat, he said, "Show that one to your grandfather."
"No, I think it was my nana that was crushing on you."
Pesky laughed and said, "Is he gonna be a politician when he grows up?"
I introduced my son to my favorite usher and we stood by the gate in canvas alley. My son finished his bottle of water and asked me to cover him while he scooped up some of the dirt from the foul area warning track. He dumped it in the bottle and stuck the bottle in his pocket, content that we were again in the making of another "best night ever" situation.
He got to sign Pesky's pole on our way to the bleachers and was grinning ear to ear as we headed for our seats. When Tek and Bronson came out to warm up, he immediately headed down to the bullpen (me chasing behind him to make sure I didn't lose him) in hopes of getting close up to his hero. As the ushers tried to chase kids back to their seats, he managed to squeeze his hat and pen through the mesh fence, promising to respect Tek's privacy forever if he'd only sign his hat.
Tek laughed as he said, "I'll hold you to that," and signed my son's hat along with a variety of baseballs and other items kids held through the fence. When he turned around, the look on my son's face was priceless. His hero, Jason Varitek - Cap'n Tek - had signed his hat.
He was disappointed Manny had the night off, not because he's a big Manny fan but because he wanted to try out his new Manny chant. His older brother, who is a bit of a nerd, taught himself Klingon recently and came up with a chant (pronounced): Kep, kep jikwan (meaning: run, run fat ass). My 13-year-old thought it would be perfect to get people to yell at Manny when he does "the Manny shuffle" up the first base line in double play situations. It had the double bonus of being something that security can't chuck you from "family friendly Fenway," if they don't know what you're saying.
Even on the T home, he continued to schmooze the crowd, getting people to laugh at the end of a long night. It reminds me that there really is something refreshing about watching the game through the eyes of a kid. No gray areas about contract negotiations, drug use/abuse or anything else. It really is a battle of good (our team) vs. evil (their team) and a bottle of dirt from the warning track. It's still a game to these kids and they still hang on the edge of their seats waiting for the final out and for "Dirty Water" and "Tessie" to be cued up and played over the PA system for a final victory dance before shuffling out to the T and the long ride home.
We adults know too much - we read papers, watch the news and keep ourselves up to date on what's happening. For those of us who write about the sport, it becomes easier to clog ourselves up with what's wrong with the sport. Last night I was reminded about what's right with it and it was like a breath of fresh air to hold in my lungs as the summer begins its slow September retreat under the blanket of fall leaves on winter's doorstep.
