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"Sweet Caroline, wo, wo, wo, good times never seemed so good..."
Around me thousands of voices raise the rafters with the familiar song. Neil Diamond concert? Oldies beach party?
Nope. Fenway Park, middle of the eighth. The place is packed and we're all singing, even if nobody really knows why. As Tevye sang, "It's Tradition!"
And the Dropkick Murphys' "Tessie?" What's that all about? Tradition!
So, what is it about professional sports that grabs us? Sure, we admire the skill, the players, the rivalries. I do get a little tired of some of the egos involved-I mean, adults are being paid obscene amounts of money to play games. It's not rocket science or brain surgery.
Face it-it's entertainment!
I've been a Red Sox fan since almost forever-mostly bad years. Raised in the Hudson Valley, it made sense to root for the Yankees, but moving to New Hampshire in the early 60s cemented the deal : the Red Sox. There was a lot of pain in those years, a lot of heartbreaks, but oh! The players! Pudge Fisk, Yaz, Jim Rice, Fred Lynn...they gave 110%. And they lost. Sigh.
I admired them from afar, mostly catching games on radio or television. Once in a while, every few years, I would get to go to a game at The Holy of Holies, Fenway "Pahk" in "Bah'ston-speak." One time with a group from church; a few times with my mother, my brother and his crazy friend Kelly; and last year with an alumni group from UNH. (That long rain delay with my spouse proved that Mr. Grumpy is better off watching the action from his recliner in the livingroom.)
This year, though, a bonanza! Three trips to Fenway and it's still only June. What a blast! And I have had to ask myself: what is it that makes this so much fun? My friend Merlene and I caught a game against Kansas City on a beautiful early summer afternoon, sitting in the shade with a breeze blowing from the Back Bay. One evening one daughter and I watched the Sox roll over the Diamondbacks in interleague play. Next up: the Tampa Bay Rays, with both teams slugging it out for second place behind the dreaded Yankees. (And spare me the obscene or at least off-color comments about the New Yorkers. They play well. They have the best that money can buy. Get over it. Watch the game.)
Sitting in the grandstand or box seats or, in Bahstun speak, " the blee-chahs," I realize it's all about belonging to something bigger than myself. "Take me out to the crowd," indeed!
We take the T (subway, to the uninitiated) to the "pahk", crammed in with others wearing the team colors, goofily happy fans of all ages, eager to cheer the Sox on to another win. Hearing the Celtic punk band Dropkick Murphys' "Shipping up to Boston" means ace closer Jonathan Papelbon is taking the mound.
Shouting "YOOOOOOK" when first baseman Kevin Youkilis hits one over the second baseman's head to send home the go-ahead run. Cheering loudly when Dustin "Pedey" Pedroia makes a diving catch to retire the side. Knowing the lingo and the team songs and seeing the peanut vendor throw a bag of Fenway peanuts across dozens of fans and dozens of rows of seats where someone makes a perfect catch. Joining the syncopated clapping started by a seven-year-old at his first ballgame when the crowd takes up the chant: "LET's go BAH-stun." Belonging.
Sneaking chilled bottled water into the park to drink with overpriced Fenway Franks and bags of Cracker Jack. Maybe we've been lucky, but our seatmates have been universally amusing and benign and not overly indulgent in purchases from the beer counters under the grandstand.
My daughter just shakes her head when she sees my team shirt and my Red Sox earrings and the lyrics to "Tessie" I've downloaded from the internet. She is bemused that I slip and call the song "Nessie", as if Fenway were a loch in Scotland. She rolls her eyes and mumbles that if anyone asks about me, she'll just tell them I'm on a day pass from the home. (And wasn't "The Dream Team" one of the best movies ever?)
And when the home team wins at Fenway, we all sing "Tessie" (although all I can remember are the lines "...two..three...four..." and "Boston, you are the only, only, only...) and "Dirty Water" and then, why not, "Joy to the World." ‘Cause Jeremiah was a bullfrog, and it's obvious what that has to do with baseball, isn't it?
As a kid I never felt like I fit in-in the family, in any of my schools. So getting taken out to the ballgame-it's all about belonging-- to some dis-organized religion. I'm a member of Red Sox Nation, and I've got the card to prove it.
