I knew about the surprise trip to see the Sox at Fenway Park. My little girl had told me as only a seven year old can:
“Dad,” she whispered. “Can I tell you a secret??”
“Well, shouldn’t you keep it quiet?”
“But! Will you promise not to tell anyone else?”
“Sure.”
“We’re taking you to see the Red Sox for your birthday!”
I did not point out the thrill of this secret was pretty much gone once she told me.
The kids were not done. “Just wait, Dad. You’ll be so excited when you get in the park!” Hmmm.
A hot night. Ninety-four degrees and no breeze at game time. Humidity 1,000 percent. Lester was terrible; we settled in for an anemic game; a rare loss on the Red Sox’s roll. But the kids stayed on the edge of their seats! “Just wait, Dad!”
And then, there it was. Middle of the fourth inning. Big scoreboard in Center Field. In the lights: “Happy Birthday David Rocchio; Love Callum and Antonia”
All spelled right. Kids jumping up and down.
Other than the kids and an embarrassed grin from my wife, that was that. The scoreboard went on to the next thing. None of the beer swilling fans to our left or right, north or south, offered a ripple of recognition.
I think the kids expected the crowd to stand and cheer – and I guess I hesitated for a second – my Ted Williams moment. Did not happen.
I started watching the scoreboard. I saw an anniversary announced. Another birthday; this one for twins. They’d been going up all during the game; I had not noticed. Except for localized bursts each announcement was met with, well, nothing.
The thirty-seven-thousand-nine-hundred-and-four souls at Fenway Park that night were not interested in my – or anyone’s – personal milestones.
The Crowd. Of course each one of us sitting in that park had stories. Including the birthdays and anniversaries blaring from the scoreboard, but also bigger personal stories: a new job, a lost job; a graduation, an engagement; a big move, a deadline; a loss, a gain of this kind or that. Every one of us could have turned to the person to the left or the right and talked for hours. Each story would be different, but we’d all be in the same ballpark.
The refreshing thing was to The Crowd the only interesting people in the little bandbox (to borrow a phrase) were those who could throw a baseball ninety miles per hour, hit a baseball traveling ninety miles per hour or catch a ball so hit.
Maybe that’s really why we go there: we all have stories but none of us can hit Bard or Buchholz. The game gets us out of ourselves. We get to put life aside and pull for the extraordinary.
Comfort in a crowd, my kids excited beyond belief, life put in perspective. Maybe Sox tickets are not too expensive after all.
David Rocchio lives, works and writes in Stowe, Vermont. (c) 2010 David Rocchio
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