I know I am in Boston because of
Fenway Park. Before the invention of the pink hat, before the bleeding sock in
2004, when the entire town hated the Yankees, I was a Red Sox fan. For my 12th
birthday, my mom brought my two sisters, 4 of my friends, and I to Fenway Park
for a game (way too many kids for one adult). We took the T, and all of us children tried to surf on it (stand
without holding on). The T smelled horrible, but we loved every second of the
adventure, we got off at Kendall, and followed the mass of sox fans to find our way. I’ll never
forget the smells on Landsdown of the sausage vendors, the sound of the turnstile
as we head in, eyes wide in amazement, the sounds of peanut shells cracking
under sneakered feet, the drunken fans heckling the opposing outfielders. I
even had a beer spilled on me from a heckler, I loved it. I was literally covered
in the attitude of the Fenway Park bleachers.
No matter
where I go, if I can see the Citgo sign, a Yankees sucks T-shirt, or a big red B
in a window, I know I’m in Boston.
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