TKOG Who has a ball

NTKOG #247: The kind of rabid, hollering sports aficionado who forgoes relaxation, sleep and sanity on the mere hope of seeing Big Papi hit one out of the park. GO SOX!

I am: sports-useless, aside from my surprising (to me, anyway) love for hockey. The worst offender? Baseball.

I am not: sure how Sister even talked me into going to another game, after the debacle that was popping my baseball v almost a year ago.

The Scene: Fenway. Gorgeous, mysterious Fenway, the throbbing heart of near-religious baseball symbolism in this glorious sporting town.

Confession: I have an inexplicably emotional reaction to Fenway. Occasionally, as I wander around town, I will catch a glimpse of the CITGO sign or the Green Monstah, and feel myself moved almost to tears by my overwhelming love for my adopted city. Combine that with a desire to see whether I’ve made any progress in my attempt to become less of a namby-pamby ball-hating failure and, dude, I had to try again.

Yes, I realize that teary architecture appreciation and obsessive monitoring of my self-growth are epically undudely reasons to go to a game, but, hey, I’m trying.

The outing to the Sox v. Angels game got off to a rough start a few days beforehand, when I innocently asked Sister if it was a spring training game. Cue eight heated hours of Facebook comments from all of her friends, informing me I’m an idiot. In related news: apparently it’s August.

Only photo I managed to take was of some guy-on-guy pre-game stretching. This is because I'm a Very Serious And Mature Intellectual. I also giggled every time one of the players had three balls.

The game itself, though, went significantly better. We made our way to our excellent seats (thanks Sis!) and, determined to really live the baseball experience, I demanded we enjoy basically the healthiest and most reasonably priced meal ever. Fenway franks! Kettle corn! Four-dollar lemon water!

And, dudes, you all probably know this, but the movie trope wherein you trustingly hand a Jackson to the people next to you, then, as though by magic, receive food and change handed down to you via baseball-fan-powered conveyor belt?! TOTALLY A REAL THING!

Yeah, I didn’t even need to see the ball in action before my mind was totally blown.

Not five minutes later, my mind was reduced to absolute rubble when, in the bottom of an uneventful first inning, Pedroia stole two bases and the stands absolutely exploded. Sis and I screamed our lungs out; the man beside up jumped out of his seat, sending a spray of popcorn showering like salty, overpriced snow over our heads.

A few innings later, bottom of the fifth, things were a bit slow and Sister had finally grown weary of explaining the finer points of the game to me (apparently “PH” means “pinch hitter,” and not that the dude in question is especially acidic). “Dude,” she dared me, “you should totally start a ‘Let’s go Red Sox!’ cheer. See if it catches on.”

Ugh. Ballsy and embarrassing, even in the anonymity of a crowd. But there was a lull of silence in our section after the walk-on music of some dude named Beltre, so I gamely shouted: “Let’s go Red Sox! [clap clap clap-clap]“–

And before I could even finish, smash, the ball rocketed through the air, over the wall and was snapped up by the open jaws of the Green Monster. Two runs! Pandemonium! Joy. Sheer friggin’ joy.

I’m not saying I understand baseball, but — but there’s something there. The poetry of the body, the ripple of the endless crowd, the roar washing through all of us and out into the night. The animal scream of the crowd ripped away the skin, revealed one of those too-often invisible tendons that link countless strangers into something bigger, something important.

Half an hour later, I knocked back the last dollar-fifty (aka: two ounces) of a Diet Coke, then turned to Sister: “Dude, I hope my future husband has a great last name.” Uh, okay. Why. “Because when I have a son, I’m filling up his closet with a dozen Starting Line-Up 2036 baby onesies. I want the name on the jersey to look good.”

Okay, Boston, you win. For a year, I’ve been told and seen first-hand that baseball is the secular religion of the city, and after last night, I’m a believer, baby. What can I say? Good times never seemed so good (so good! so good! so good!).

The Verdict: We won, 7-5, and this girl is officially registering her prayers for an upcoming Soxtober. While I can’t vow to watch every game, dude, if I’m in a bar where the game’s playing, I hereby swear I’ll never again ask them to change to the Bollywood Music Video Channel. I might even peek at the score a few times. Without inquiring as to the acidity of any of the batters.

I’ve got to say, it may not be the most exciting thing I’ve ever done — half the toddlers in America have been to twice as many baseball games as I’ll ever go to — but it feels amazing to fall a little bit in love with something you always assumed you’d hated. I challenged my expectations and prejudices and wound up having an incredible time. And if that isn’t what this project’s all about, then I don’t know what is.

Plus, dude, seriously, can’t go wrong with ballpark food and instant replay close-ups of Pedroia. Amazing.

Tagged as: a year ago i only knew fenway as the place where elle and emmett got married in legally blonde 2, being less of a pretentious chump, boston, fenway, love, questions not to ask your sox-obsessed sister: "can two dudes be on one base at the same time? why not? too homoerotic?", red sox, soxtober