NTKOG #20: The kind of girl who gets all painted up in her team colors and hoots and hollers them all the way to victory!
I am: indifferent, at best, to organized sporting events. My idea of a good sportin’ time is a Frasier marathon. (Hey! The word marathon’s right in there, guys!)
I am not: into sports, okay?
The Scene: Fenway. Reluctantly.
Last year, in the Travel section of the New York Times, I read an excellent article comparing the best foods at ballparks across the nation. Out of polite interest, spurred on by visions of a Pilgrim Sandwich (turkey, stuffing + cranberry), I casually called my Red Sox fanatic sister and asked: “Hey, do you know where Fenway is?”
Turns out that was a bit of a stupid question. After over a year of intense mockery — “Oooh, see that, TKOG? It’s Fenway Cafe! I’ll bet they have patio seating in the green monstah!” — I decided to prove myself by actually facing said monstah. She scored three tickets to last night’s Sox v. Angels game eight months ago, but had plans to go alone-together with some guy. In a totally unprecedented move, I asked for the third ticket.
“Well, I was just going to throw it away. I guess I could give it to you. Same thing.”
So she armed me with a #15 jersey and a hand-drawn map of Fenway (complete with all nearby bookstores with huge do-not-go-here-you-wimp X’s slashed through them.)
I arrived at Fenway this evening a bit after the national anthem. And I did not figure out how the hell to get to my section until midway through the second inning. Once I actually elbowed my way into the standing room section at the top of the pavillion. I was ready to see some friggin’ ball! Here’s what I saw instead:
With distractions like "the field" and "players" out of the way, I was free to focus on more important matters.
I didn’t actually see the literal baseball until halfway into the sixth inning — and I only knew it was the sixth inning from checking out the ESPN coverage helpfully displayed from a flat-screen TV across from the pretzel stand.
But surely the rabid Sox fans would carry this baseball neophyte through on the crest of their enthusiasm, right? I dreamed of jocularly sloshing foam on some ruddy-cheeked all-Amurikun baseball fans, jumping up to do The Wave together, leading a chant or two (“A pox! a pox! a pox on those who oppose The Sox!”). Instead, I listened in on an old walrus mustache dude trying to pick up a tipsy au pair by asking about the benefits of a season pass to the aquarium. Two conversations over, a tall young man with a disproportionally long torso and rose-petal pink cheeks explained to a trio of rapt girls the intangible benefits of dating a single mom with a special-needs autistic son (“She’s just, like, so guilty all the time. It’s kind of hot.”)
Right. This called for more booze.
While I was actually at the famous Chez Fenway, I figured I’d actually tuck into the famous sandwich, and spent another inning and a half navigating the concessions plaza — a concrete apocalpyse bunker, brimming with fried dough, the heady waft of hops, and restrooms every twenty feet — kind of a glorious shopping mall for the id, all things considered. When I finally found the deli stand (under section seven, Sox fans; don’t ask me what section seven is, though), the giant pimple behind the counter had just served out the last of the stuffing. Forget seeing the game! I couldn’t even get friggin’ food in this cavern of horrors!
So I set about returning to my seat. But, mindful of my difficulty finding the ramp upwards to the pavillion last time, I used a sneaky trick and follow a large stream of people up a ramp by home plate and directly into … a men’s restroom. “You lost?” barked a serious Southie; “Uh, so, this isn’t the pavillion, is it?” I tried to smile winningly, accidentally catching the eye of a man at a urinal. Okay, I take back my endorsement for the restrooms every twenty feet thing.
Once I finally found the proper ramp, I realized a little secret about having crappy seats: dude, just do not go to them. Go to other ones! After a couple of innings of boozin’, apparently no one notices. So I watched an inning or so, actually getting to see the batter for the first time of the night!, marveling over how life-sized the players seemed. Held out for the seventh inning stretch, and got the hell out of dodge(rs country.)
Turns out the game is only marginally more interesting when you can actually see it.
As I was leaving, in the beginning of the eighth inning, I realized: I didn’t know the score. Heck, I didn’t even know which team was winning. I stopped a couple of guys to ask, but they just laughed, so I checked my iPhone instead. Apparently we won. Go team?
The Verdict: Sorry, Pedroia, I don’t enjoy ya. A Red Sox game: definitely not the place to go for an anxious, sports hating intellectual; indeterminately the place to go for a decent Thanksgiving-style sandwich: DEFINITELY THE PLACE TO GO if you’re looking to mack on mothers and childcare professionals.
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I LOVE FRASIER TOO!
I am definitely not that kind of sports girl either.
Couldn’t care less. Didn’t even know how baseball really worked for scoring.
Fraiser Marathon?
Sex and the City Marathon?
Top Chef Marathon?
Sign me up.
Everyday Minimalist: you and my sister are soul mates. Perhaps leave out some of the SJP whining in Sex and the City, and you two would get along famously.
Also, I feel that NTKOG needs to upload the detailed map I drew for her. It’s complete with Unos, Barnes and Nobles, and Popeyes along with this little oval at the bottom entitled “Fenway.”
I do enjoy a Red Sox game, so I can’t say much on that, but sounds like your experience was…interesting…Did you have any chowda? Our big thing when we went was wanting to eat clam chowder at the game.
the only sports i’ve found truly entertaining to watch live are hockey and soccer.
hockey because you get to wear sweaters and people fight.
soccer because you get to wear scarves and *sing* cheers.
if you can find some pro soccer, and sit with the fans (fans, not soccer moms) it’s quite entertaining.
The whole sporting thing didn’t work because it wasn’t *football*. Baseball’s ok-ish, but not for non-sports lovers. Ah well, maybe your sister will score some football tix sometime!
I have a few friends who are quite the same way, though I must ask WHY you would go only to partake in the food? Ball park food is way over priced and way under flavored. Boston has some fantastic restaurants, where money is better spent!
Your adventure was definitely funny, though (even with a few beers) I find it hard not to check out the players/game. Mostly the cute baseball men =)
Kudos to you. I’ve lived here for 5 years and have yet to go to a game.
The caption on the first pic made my night!
Haha, this one’s perfect. I was so incredulous when I saw your tweet about being at a baseball game. This keeps happening: I read what you are doing and reacting, “What?! Why in the world would she be — oh yea! NTKOG!”
All your energy was put into the right activities. Love this post, love your beer.
I went to a baseball game once, only because my friends were going and it was free. We left before it was over because we were thoroughly bored. The most exciting part of the night was when the mascot stole my friend’s camera and proceeded to take pictures of random people with it.