To me, baseball is sacred. As a devout Catholic, watching a baseball game is the closest thing to a religious experience.
This goes back to my childhood. Every year since I was six years old, my dad would take me to Fenway Park to watch a Red Sox game, just the two of us. It meant everything.
I can still vividly recall the sensory experiences of my youth: the smell of sausages and onions sizzling on the flat-top grills of the food trucks on Yawkey Way; the haggling of street vendors hawking their food stalls and walking up and down the aisles; the sense of awe I feel when I see the Green Monster and enter the ballpark from the concourses.
For many years I wrote a column for a small Boston newspaper that got me tickets so I could return the favor and take my dad to a Red Sox game.
Then my father, brother-in-law and son began attending annual games at Fenway Stadium, continuing the tradition. But in light of the Red Sox owners’ price gouging, the annual trip to Fenway has been discontinued until the gluttony ends.
But I never thought my daughter would be interested in sharing the Red Sox experience with me.
Until she did.
Paige, now 21, was sleeping in her crib, my wife was pregnant with her brother, when I woke her up to watch the Red Sox win the 2004 World Series with me at our old house in Manchester. She doesn’t remember it, of course, but it meant a lot to me to share that experience with my child.
Growing up, my wife and I took the kids to Fisher Cats games, and as Paige got older, I also taught her how to keep score at a baseball game—yes, I’m that relic you can still find in the stands, chewing on his pen while trying to figure out how to get the double steal despite a throwing error.
Recently, Paige, a student at Boston College, surprised me and asked me if I wanted to go to a Red Sox game with her. My heart melted and of course I said yes.
We had tickets to the matinee last Sunday where the Red Sox played the Houston Astros after losing the first two games of the weekend series. To me, it felt like a game to be won, so I took the bus from Londonderry to South Station.
It’s been a few years since I last traveled around Boston, and I had some trouble finding the Green Line, but I eventually ended up at Cask N’ Flagon, where I grabbed a few beers while I waited for my daughter to pick me up.
We entered the stadium at the start of the first inning and I still can’t get over that initial amazement when I saw the Green Monster. We found our seats in the right-hand bleachers and I gave Paige my bank card. She got us drinks and came back with a beer, a vodka soda and a bag of peanuts.
“What about the peanuts?” I asked her. “I didn’t know you liked peanuts.”
“Now I do,” she said. “When they swiped your card for the drinks, it wouldn’t work. So I told the woman at the counter that the card wasn’t charged and she gave me a free bag of peanuts because I was honest.”
And they were some of the most delicious peanuts I can remember. For some reason, certain things taste better at the stadium – hot dogs, beer, peanuts – and everything tastes better when it’s free.
The Red Sox lost 10-2 to Houston on Sunday, and the game was all but over in the fifth inning. To spare the bullpen, first baseman Dom Smith pitched in the ninth inning and threw an Eephus pitch.
And later we learned that Jarren Duran had an unfortunate encounter with a fan at that game that resulted in a two-game suspension.
But I still had a wonderful afternoon watching baseball with my daughter. Since she’s away at college most of the year, I forget how much I really enjoy her company.
And folks, if you get a chance to take your daughter to the ballpark and share some peanuts with her – free or not – I highly recommend it. Trust me, it’s an experience you’ll never forget.
