“Oh wow, these seats are great!”
Casey’s right, we do have great seats. The first row of an upper deck along the first base line, home plate to our left, the Pesky Pole to our right, and second base and left field with the Green Monster, directly in front of us. A midday game. The sun is high in the sky and there is not a cloud in sight: a great day for baseball. Six groundskeepers under the watchful eye of a foreman drag rakes en echelon through the infield making sure the dirt is just so. Wally, the mascot, the other green monster, mugs for photos with kids along the baseline. A few players throw long ball and stretch in the outfield.
Casey settles into her seat, puts her beer in the cup holder and secures her purse beside her. She adjusts the baseball cap that sits atop her curly grey hair, removes her sunglasses, and finds her reading glasses. From a pocket she pulls out a newspaper supplement that came with the Boston Sunday Globe back in March before the season started. It profiles the Red Sox players providing a brief bio and what to look for in the coming season. Today’s pitcher is Rick Porcello who had a strong 2016 but disappointed in 2017. Boston’s sports journalists have high hopes for 2018 if he can throw with conviction. So far the season is going well as Porcello is off to an 8 and 2 start. Casey seems satisfied with the prospects for a good outing. She folds the paper and secures it under a rail in front of her, then sits back and smiles.
Casey has been a Sox fan since the 50’s. Before the upper deck. Before Wally. Before the iconic Citgo sign. When factory smoke stacks were more prevalent beyond Fenway’s walls than today’s gleaming office buildings and high-rise residences. She came to see games with her father. They lived in a nearby suburb and he worked in Boston. He found an element of pride in his teenage daughter’s interest with the team: Ted Williams, Sammy White, Jackie Jensen. Casey with her program and glove in hand, her father with a hot dog or peanuts: they’d root for the home team and against the likes of Phil Rizzuto, Yogi Berra, and anyone else with a Yankees uniform.
In the late 50’s Casey’s family moved to Connecticut and since then getting to the games has been just inconvenient enough that she has not been able to make it to Fenway, instead resorting to cheering from a chair in front of a television or in the car on a long drive. Returning to the park to see a game in person has been a long time coming.
In the third the second baseman fields a hard ground ball cleanly. He pivots to his right and throws to the shortstop at second base for what should be the first out of a double play. But the shortstop bobbles and then drops the ball; all runners are safe.
“Damn,” I hear Casey say.
She adjusts her reading glasses and reaches for her preseason report to confirm her suspicion: “needs work on fielding.” I wonder if the shortstop feels her scorn. Harrumphing she folds the paper and settles back in her seat.
When Casey was 12 or 13 her father’s boss gave her a puppy – a black and white Pointer she named Billy Goodman. William Dale (Billy) Goodman, born 1926, played 16 seasons with the Red Sox starting in 1947. In the late 40s and early 50s he played every position except pitcher and catcher, was named to All-Star teams, and won batting titles. He was one of the Red Sox players featured in Norman Rockwell’s 1957 cover of the Saturday Evening Post called “The Rookie,” a painting that made news recently when it sold for $22 million. He was also a point of interest for one teenage girl from nearby Belmont. While other girls attended a costume party dressed as nurses and princesses, Casey went as her favorite Red Sox player, Billy Goodman. The Red Sox in general, and Billy Goodman in particular, were a teenage obsession that Casey’s family found amusing but that some of her friends failed to understand.
Down a run in the eighth, Casey’s daughter suggests calling it a game and beating the rush out of the park. Others in the stands seem to share her opinion as a stream of fans move toward the exits.
“No” Casey says, “the game’s not over.”
And so we stay.
Casey’s allegiance to the Sox has not wained. Annual snowbird trips to Florida include a day at Spring Training where she takes in a game and checks out the prospects; rookies and veterans bear the same scrutiny. Family and friends can expect an email with a few shots from the seats of whoever is on the mound or the new high-priced slugger at the plate: “So much fun at the game today!” Her countdown to opening day commences upon her return to New England later in March.
In the top of the ninth the visitors add two more runs, and in the bottom of the ninth the Sox fizzle, the game ending on a routine ground out to first. No late-inning heroics. No walk-off runs today.
“Oh well, that’s too bad.”
Casey picks up her things, puts away her reading glasses. She stands and takes another look at the field as the players head to the dugouts and groundskeepers start their post-game cleanup.
“That was fun,” says Casey.
She’s right. That was fun.
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