Texas Rangers v. Boston Red Sox (Fenway, Jul. 4–6, 2023). Overheard at the grandstand: “‘movurit. I kid you not. Just . . . why’d it have to be Bucky Frickin’ Dent?”
“Dad, who’s Bucky Frikkendente?”
“No one.”
As I juggled two $7 Kayem hot dogs, a warm, flat Lite, and the unanswerable question, who exactly is smoking a cigarette in the stands right now? I calculated: 2023 less 1978. Fifty, no, forty-five years. Squinting at the visiting team playing long toss before first pitch, I could still see Jerry Remy’s heart sink as that three-run pop up floats away. Patio ergo sum.
History, schmistory. It was no accident I found myself at Fenway of an Independence Day. The Ministry of Compliance dispatched me to Boston; although if asked, they’d disavow it. According to reliable sources, some fifth columnist in the Sox bullpen had tweeted a string of sleepy1 comments about Pride month. My mission, should I choose to accept it, was to gather intel for an upcoming committee sesh on how to improve conformity among the lower classes. Notwithstanding the critical nature of such field work, there would be some mission creep.
The project would require the presence and advice of my attorney, Dr. Gonzo, as well as some diligent prep work. Never afraid to get my elbows dirty, I jumped right in by watching a few games on NESN. With any luck, I would soon be speaking (and with some extraordinary luck, understanding) the Massachusetts dialect(s). I would need half, no, a whole bottle of house white and some assistance tuning out Kevin Millar. I listened closely to the dulcet tones of Owen Wilson. Turns out, Owen knows a little bit about the League. How ‘bout that? But it isn’t Owen Wilson. That gentle lilting voice belongs to Will Middlebrooks — a serviceable infielder from the Tito years. At any rate, after enduring a handful of broadcasts I realized nothing would prepare me like full immersion.
Have faith, I told myself; after all, my Harvard-educated attorney Dr. Gonzo had made all necessary arrangements. He assured me our accommodations would be close to the fens. “Trust me.” But after the night drop from a fast-moving attack helicopter, I discovered we would be posted in a short-term rental somewhere in the childcare belt of the MetroWest. Naychuck. Or Lasik. Something like that.
Disappointment aside, we were prepared and had time to get our bearings. At daybreak, we gained access to a mosquito-rich golf course. I shot a respectable 126 — thank you very much automatic triple bogey cutoff. Disgruntled from playing a game which spells FLOG backwards, we headed for a strip mall speakeasy to watch the Sox visit the Blue Jays during the adorable chaos that is Canada Day. The game was quickly forgot in long, winding conversations about traveling Blue Jays fans, their incessant wildfire smoke, and Cito Gaston. What do you think: is it too late to call him “Citgo”? In the bottom of the ninth, Connor Wong (Connor Number Two, but more on that later) tagged out the would-be tying runner at home to end the game. Immediately a discussion about blocking the plate became heated. Tempers cooled as all parties involved realized the Sox had won, and, bonus! ex-Mariner Yusei Kikuchi had been saddled with the loss. We wrapped post-game festivities at a tiny boathouse tavern on Lake Situate affectionately referred to by locals as “the Chat(eau).” Classy.
On Sunday, we put the mission (and our national pastime) on the backburner and devoted the day to history. Braving the pouring rain and wicked thick Canadian smoke, we toured the Concord Museum and Minute Man National Park. I jotted down some notes to share with the Ministry. As always, I endeavored for objectivity. For example, C. Mus. devotes (just) one (whole) exhibit to the indigenous peoples of Massachusetts. Dr. Gonzo advises I can’t afford to gain a reputation for bias or partiality.
Monday (Jul. 3) was Travel Day, not only for the team but also for me. Time grows heavy in Dr. Gonzo’s company. There’s only so much Axe body spray one can endure not to mention the never-ending whining about Supreme Court malfeasance. After too many complaints, I begin to suspect my attorney to be a Mar-a-Lago double agent. In the cover of early morning I sneaked away and took the commuter rail into town. Pretending to sleep in the carriage, I overheard youths planning to avoid so-and-so’s aunt who works near Downtown Crossing. Wise counsel prevailed: “it’s a pretty big city, dude.” Stepping off the train at Lansdowne I closed my eyes, spun ‘round, and let the fates carry me where they would. Old spy habits die hard. I would walk West by Southwest, incognito and off the grid.
I found myself transported to a leafy boulevard of heavy-sounding street cars, impatient dogs, and zombies staring at smartphones. I slowed my rapid heartbeat and recalled my Langley training: West Coast, say hello and smile; Beast Coast, look edgy. Using my reflection in a plate glass window, I practiced looking annoyed and tough. Hey, a wine shop! Inside, the young man at the counter couldn’t be sure whether he sold corkscrews. You know, screws into the cork, then you pull it; abracadabra, wine? “Ah, an ohp-n-uh.”
That night I camped in a beautiful green expanse on Amory. I wrote in my ops book: Monday night was a great success. True, it rained non-stop and the Sox were off but the M’s beat the Giants at the Bay with a four-run ninth. See? Even mediocre teams can be fun half the time.
Dr. Gonzo forgot to pack my toothpaste so Tuesday morning, Independence Day, I sloshed toward the ballpark with wet, grass-stained clothes and purple teeth. When in Rome. I was a few hours early for first pitch at 1:35 p.m. local time. I approached the box office for a ticket to the famous ballpark tour. That ought to provide a little respite from the rain, eh?
“One for the tour, please.”
“Just one?”
Yes, and let’s not make a big deal about my ditching Dr. Gonzo. I was feeling guilty enough as it was. “This one’s premium — 40 dahlluhs rathuh than 25 — you get to watch batting practice from the field.” Well, when you put it like that, my good man, I can’t afford not to.
I noticed other patrons lining up across the street at the Official Team Store. I understood a Ministry asset may be disguised as a Mr. Ryan. Inside the store I observed numerous folks wearing Ryan 34 jerseys. I couldn’t help thinking of the time ol’ Nolan put Robin Ventura (Boulevard) in a headlock. “Hall of famer,” I mumbled without conviction and smiled at the Nolan Ryan closest to me. I kicked myself as I was already forgetting my training.
After taking photos with Wally (some sort of giant green monster) we shuffled our way through the dank catacombs then out into the rain, at that time distilled to an enjoyable, fine mist, to gaze with reverence upon the red Ted Williams2 seat. (See inset.) If you don’t know, this is the seat Teddy Ballgame sat in instead of the dugout because his teammates couldn’t stand him. Every game. It’s five-hundred-and-some-feet from home, which is to say, a long walk in a small park. But that’s Ted. Like hockey gloves, you want him as far away as possible.
I admit I felt burned by the ticket vendor. Because of the rain, batting practice was cancelled. What then had the premium been for? Perhaps a good teaching moment. I considered tracking the rascal down and giving him a piece of my mind but once on Lansdowne I heard the sirens’ call. Game On.
I had become too conspicuous. Sipping a Bloody Mary which seemed to be three parts moonshine, one part sriracha, I willed myself to assume a cloak of invisibility. Slouching comfortably on a bar stool, I went through the motions of watching Andy Murray play tennis at some lawn club in the UK. This was simply an exercise of moving the irises back and forth, nodding or grimacing subtly as facts (or voices) dictated, and taking modest albeit frequent sips of refreshment. Such are the field skills one develops over time.
This is when I met Connor Number Five.3 I presumed Connor Number Five to be a Ministry asset. Despite the steady rain, Connor Number Five wore a yellow tank and backwards baseball cap. At first, I assumed the flamboyant 90s-inspired kit was designed to help me identify him as a contact, but I now understand this to be Standard Boston Modern. He confided to be too young to remember the 86 lean years. No Buckner nightmares for him. When he was four, the Sox beat the Highlanders and then the Gashouse Gang to win it all. When he was seven, they beat the Rox to do it again. When he was thirteen, they did it to the Gang again. And when he was eighteen, they beat Brooklyn to make it four championships in fifteen years.
I grew impatient with Connor Number Five’s monologue and decided now was the time to state the secret code. I mean, there’s a fine but definite line between small talk and bragging. From a lopsided smile I whispered, “Chris Sale’s arm slot looks an awful lot like that of Randy Johnson.” Sure, it lacked the elegant brevity of “Thunder” . . . “Flash,” but we are all finding our feet after the pandemic — especially in the intelligence community. After a pregnant pause, he said casually, “I never saw him pitch.”
“Griffey?”
“Nah.”
After considering for a moment, he adds, “Mookie Betts is still the greatest of all time.”
Sigh. That was neither the appropriate call sign nor response to the password. Suddenly, time’s grip felt cold, tight, and unwelcome. Once again, I slipped deftly into the anonymity of the crowd.
An hour before first pitch I sought my seat. There may be an important message taped to the bottom. I garnered a few looks as I worked the crowd on Yawkey Way — strike that, Jersey Street. To this first of the three against the hated Dallas Baseball Club, I wore one of my Yastrzemski jerseys.4 A Carlserk, if you will. In addition to bestowing powers to the wearer, like a bear shirt,5 my Yaz jerseys do a number of things including (1) inform others I know a thing or two about suffering, check that, baseball, (2) acknowledge life is suffering (see above), and (3) admit I am old (school) enough to remember when baseball was played the right way. Wait is my dad here?
Other than a torn Boston Strong sticker and dimes of petrified chewing gum forming a crooked line like bed bug bites, there was nothing left for me on or under my seat. But there were things to occupy me. The pre-game festivities were captivating and included a giant Old Glory draped over the left-field wall (see inset) and local children’s troupes reenacting Parker’s Revenge on the L.L. Bean infield tarp with shrill shrieks and take-no-prisoner attitudes.
If the “marine layer” obscured any baseball worth watching or mentioning, I suppose the result was the same. By the stretch, the Strangers had built what felt to be an insurmountable five-run lead, the rain fell even harder, and the game trudged on without respite. When Justin Turner Overdrive knocked in Muscles Yoshida in the bottom of the eighth, the Sox faithful thought surely this was the turning point. It was. The much-anticipated rain delay had finally come. After 107 minutes of concession-less organ music, most in attendance left for regularly scheduled July 4 activities, including at the Hatch Shell or Mass Ave Bridge.
Having nowhere else to be (and still trying to make contact) I kept vigil in the grandstand, playing name that tune with the well-caffeinated organist. Once restarted, the game fizzled out like a sparkler in summer showers and what remained of the crowd grumbled off into the evening. Texas 6, Sox 2.
I had the whole of Wednesday to locate my sources and prepare for Game Two. At five o’clock, I was on Boylston. Dr. Gonzo had referenced a whisky pub at which one can purchase a whole suckling pig. Curious to see for myself, I took an open seat at the bar. After closely observing customers and staff for a few moments, I placed my order for an entire pig. “For real?” Yes, I am for real. “Usually we sell those to parties of eight or more,” says the bartender, Connor Number Eleven. This didn’t sound like Ministry-approved code. After some confused questioning, I was permitted to order seafood chowder for one.
Warmed by the chowder and Glen Grant neat, I was back in the ballpark for Game Two. Don’t ask, but I was in one of the loge boxes behind home. During the course of the evening, a vocal Sox fan behind me (Connor Number Seventeen as it happens) made several announcements to the umpires, players, fans, and park generally. I was reminded of Dr. Gonzo’s loquacious Jack Russell mix, Elle Woods. These exhortations grew louder and more “townie” as the sun set, more Harpoon was imbibed, and the game wore on. Always on the top of my game, I strained to note any secret messages which might be conveyed. Before first pitch, the PA announced Alan Porter as the homeplate umpire. Connor/17 screamed, “Leshaveagoodgame, Alan! Al-an! A fair game. Allsweask. Al-an!” This could be the voice of a genius. During the suspenseful moments after the pitcher becomes set, Connor/17 again, “I luv Bosstin!” “Lesssgo Sahx!!!” and the perennial favorite, “Don’t get cute!”6 Naturally, Connor/17 also made spirited shrieks seemingly directed at specific players: “Duran, Duran, be hungry like the wolf, pal.” and “Nevuh, nevuh have I Devuhrs.” Clearly, there was some agency at work here. In any event, Alan did have a good game. Sox 4, Texas 2.
Thursday morning broke hot and humid, what else. As fortune would have it, Dr. Gonzo had tracked me down. Much to my surprise and chagrin, he was waiting to be seated when I entered a funhouse on Brookline (or was it Van Ness?). I was drawn not by the prospect of seeing a whole pig on some jabronis’ table but to buy beer by the yard. Dr. Gonzo, same. I reluctantly agreed to be seated together but I told him in no uncertain words I would not be paying his hourly rate for the pleasure of his company. Table talk quickly degenerated into whether Sultans of Swing was a proper name for a volleyball team. By the time the check came, I had slipped away again and was well on my way to meet Connor Number Twenty-three at the Casket Flagon.
Game Three can be described without hyperbole as the best baseball game ever played.7 The Strangers had taken Game One in the rain, the Sox had taken Game Two on a hot summer night, and Game Three was what the real ballfans call a “rubber match.”8 At 7:10 p.m., the thermometer in centerfield bubbled at a Cancun-like 90° F. The very real danger of heat stroke was but one of several reasons why I had pretty much turned my back on doing any field work during the rubber match. Saving their strength, the Sox did nothing much either until the bottom of the seventh, when the offense, like Ali, who absorbed blow after blow until Foreman tired, erupted for six runs. Three outs later, we were all singing along with Neil Young, Sweet Southern Man. So good. So good. So good. Sox 10, Texas 6.
After Game Three, on David Ortiz Way, I was all smiles. I noticed a familiar smell in the air. I was advised that was the smell of cannabis burning. A wit next to me said, “Welcome to America.” Then he hiccupped just like Andy Capp. Land of the free, baby.
Well, that was it. For what I had received on this trip, I felt truly grateful. And that’s all one can ask these days. I failed to make contact with sources or agents, but I saw some great ball and gathered some valuable intel. Valuable to whom? I’m afraid that’s classified. What I can tell you is this: Let’s Go Red Sox!
1 Un-woke. – Ed.
2 Compare Williams, .344/.482/.634, 2654 hits, 521 HR, 1839 RBI, with David Ortiz, .286/.380/.552, 2472, 541, 1768. – Ed.
3 One encounters the first name Connor so frequently in Boston. – Ed.
4 Compare Yaz, .285/.379/.462, 3419, 452, 1844, with Ken Griffey, Jr., .284/.370/.538, 2781, 630, 1836.
5 Berserk. – Ed.
6 The latter sounds particularly incisive at Bruins games, too. – Ed.
7 On July 6, 2023. – Ed.
8 Rubber match is a term borrowed from cribbage; according to Hoyle, cribbage is a contrived game with cards, pocked wood, and racing pegs. Anyone with a grandmother knows cribbage to be serious business. – Ed.
