d i n a n e . n e t 

Here is the list of stupid things I have done so far today. And it’s only 8:30 in the morning!

• Hit snooze twice, thus causing me to wake up too late to wash my hair and still get to Oak Grove early enough for a pay-the-person parking space (as I have no small bills).
• Drop a cup of water on the carpet, thus causing me to have to mop it up with the towels I just washed yesterday.
• Therefore be delayed too late to get to Oak Grove before the lot is completely full.
• Convince myself that it will be okay, and I can go to Malden Station instead, and park at the public garage for $6 instead of $3.50
• Forget that the $6 deal is only good if you’re in by 10 and out by 7. In by 10 is no problem. Out by 7… that’s not happening today. I’ve got a baseball game to go see!
• Drive around Malden Center for several minutes, pathetically hoping to find cheaper parking than $18.
• EXCEPTION: Stupid thing I didn’t do (thankfully): Be idiotic enough to try to drive in to Boston while half the city tunnels are shut down. At least I was smart enough to actually park in that public garage in Malden.
• Forget to charge my cell phone, despite promising Mike that I would, thus leading me to have to spend my lunch break finding a Cingular Wireless store so I can buy a charger.

Let’s hope the rest of the day goes smoother. After all, I am going to see the Red Sox tonight. How can today be bad if I have that to look forward to?

P.S.: I just checked, I wasn’t so stupid that I forget my ticket. Entrance to the near-to-last row of the upper bleachers will be mine. I will be able to go see my Sox. Thankfully I’m not that dumb.

P.P.S.: Do you think, if I begged, the MBTA would either (a) build more parking at Oak Grove and/or Malden Center or (b) extend the orange line closer to my house? Probably not. But it would be nice…

It all started out so innocently. We were sitting on the orange line train, waiting impatiently for it to leave Oak Grove Station. The tweets of birds filled the finally warm sunny air.

Suddenly, a chickadee popped in through the open door. She remained for only a second and the popped out. A few seconds passed, and she brought her friends. They chirped away outside the door, probably deciding who was going to go in next. In came a chickadee – I didn’t notice if it was the same one or not. I did wonder if I should chase her out, or let her take a ride into Boston. I stood up, she bolted. This happened several more times before the bells rang, and the doors closed. I so thought at least one of them was coming with us, but we left Oak Grove bird-free.

Soon, we were at “North Station; change here for the green line and the commuter rail; doors open on the right.” We hopped out, avoiding the creepy old guy who had been staring at me since Wellington Circle, and crossed the platform only to watch a green line trolley pull away. But another one was close behind.

I made Mike promise to protect me if the creepy old guy stood too close to me. He said he’d kick him in the balls. He didn’t follow us onto the trolley anyway. I thought for a second, wondering why not, and as we pulled into Haymarket, it occurred to me. This is an E-line trolley. The E-line doesn’t go to Kenmore.

So, off we got at Government Center, followed by a dad and two kids. We stopped just a few feet from the edge of the platform, waiting for the next non-E. The dad almost slammed into us. “Where do we go now?”

“Huh?” I noticed his cap. “Oh, we have to wait for a train that’s not an E.” This poor man had followed us, figuring that our authentic replica jerseys made us experts at getting to Fenway Park.

Lucky for all five of us, the next train was a B. Even luckier, it was an fresh empty B, with plenty (all) open seats. We lost the family, and took a seat in the articulated part of the Bombardier. Five almost arrivals at Kenmore, an extremely slow ascent up crowded stairs, and a short walk with the mob later…

“Tickets!” “Genuine programs here!” “Tickets! Buyin’ tickets? Sellin’ tickets?” “If you have tickets to today’s game, the fastest way in is gate E!”

Well, our tickets were marked gate B, but we followed the man’s advice and were scanned in very quickly. Of course, Gate E is most of the way out in left field. Our tickets were most of the way out in right field. Fenway Park has only recently connected up every section of the park with walkways, but still, there was only one way to go, and that way brought us about 75% of the way around the park

We made it to our seats and settled in for the game. We just knew it was going to be a great game. I mean, we had just watched Big Papi hit the walk-off home run in the 12:00 game on TV right before leaving the house. We were so ready to watch baseball.

It wasn’t long until the game got somewhat out of hand. I don’t even want to talk about the score. Let’s just say the Sox didn’t play their best, and Francona left at least one pitcher in too long.

But that’s not what I’m here to talk about. I would like to introduce the people around us. In front: the drunk friendly couple. To their right: the sweet sixteen party. To our right: a dad and his 5-year-old son, who was more interested in his Superman action figure than the baseball. To our left: the sober friendly couple. And to the rear: Jerkface and his girl, the queen of the cellphone, Jerkette.

I love baseball, okay? Let’s get things straight. When I’m at the park, I know what’s happening. I scream when necessary. I cheer at the top of my lungs when necessary. I participate in chants. And I stand up when something exciting is happening.

Let’s set the stage. Runners on first and second. Two outs. A couple runs in. First good thing to happen in this ballgame. At the plate is “the designated hitter… David… Ortiiiiiz!!!!!!” Much cheering, as he works the count full. By this point, Mike and I, along with several other scattered fans in our area, are standing and yelling and clapping and generally excited.

“Could you sit down?”

I think, to myself, “Well, since you were so polite…”

“…Because everyone else is, and I didn’t pay to watch your backs.”

I tensed. I lost my fan-concentration. Mike and I plopped down in our seats, dejected. The friendly lady next to me says I should have “accidentally” splashed my water on him. “He’s a jerk. We’ll back you up.”

I was too upset to answer. I nursed my water as Ortiz struck out. I was even more upset.

But the game, like any show, must go on. A couple innings later, Ortiz is back up at the plate. There’s a man on, and two outs. The game is probably what announcers call “out of reach” at this point, but I know baseball. And, to quote a very quotable, but unfortunately evil-empire-aligned, catcher, “It ain’t over ’til it’s over!

So we’re up again, on our feet, yelling and clapping and generally routing on our team. This time, we aren’t alone. The drunk friendly couple, who we have been conversing with during down times, are up with us, along with several of the far-too-blond-to-be-really-blond teens celebrating their friend’s birthday (don’t worry, they sang to her as loud as they could in the middle of the 6th), and generally anyone who still cares about the game.

“Down in front!”

Oh that’s so original.

“I paid $45 for these seats!” He asked his non responsive neighbor, “Didn’t you pay $45 for these seats?”

I had already decided that I wasn’t sitting down until Ortiz got a home run or the inning ended. (I had snuck a peak back at Jerkface. He was a little twerp. I knew I could take him. Jerkette didn’t look like the kind of girl to get her hair tousled in a fight, either.)

“I didn’t pay $45 to watch your backs! Sit down!”

The inning ended, once again dashing what little hope was left for this ball game, and we all sat down, dejected, but full of fire. I turned back and spat out, “You know? You’re a jerk.” I wanted to use more expletives, but I behaved for the sake of Superman’s little friend.

“Yeah, I am a jerk. A jerk who wants to see the game.”

Mike, who had obviously been thinking about what he was going to say if the guy tried again, chimed in with, “If you want an unobstructed view, why don’t you go home and watch NESN. It’s channel 51.”

If baseball was so important to this guy, why did he:

1. Let his girlfriend chatter on the phone with her friends;
2. Stay seated during exciting moments of the game; and (my all-time favorite)
3. Leave after the 8th inning?!

He waved an angry goodbye as they left.

“Oh! You paid $45 to leave the game early? Wow. What a rip off. You must feel jipped!”

I was so proud of myself for that one. That’s usually the kind of gold I come up with twenty minutes later. That one left him speechless.

Our friendly neighbors, drunk and sober alike, all had grins on his face after he was gone. They didn’t last, though, because the game kept on going. And it wasn’t the Sox doing the scoring.

I left the park sad that the Sox lost, angry at Jerkface and the Jerkette, but still happy to have gotten to spend a day at the best park in the world watching the best team in the world. I frickin’ love the Red Sox. Nothing can spoil that.