Home sweet Fenway

Throughout the world there are structures that have a striking essence to them. And inhabitants of every place think that their structure is the most captivating of all. For citizens of India, it’s the Taj Mahal. For the Britons it is Big Ben or Buckingham Palace. But if you have dirty water in your veins, it is none other than Fenway Park.

Having been born and raised in Quincy, a town less than ten minutes outside of Boston, I was brought up believing that the Fens is a sacred terrain, much like a church. And in a sense, it is. It’s a place where folks come to spend time with one other, pray intensely, and their requested miracles sometimes go unanswered, or at least for a while anyway.

Well, this sacred terrain was one of the most significant structures throughout my childhood.

My grandfather bought into a season tickets deal back in 1970. For years he would take my dad or my uncle to a handful of games every season. Then, when I was born, he handed the tickets down to my father and he has taken me or my brother to Section 30, Box 77, Row A for as long as I can remember.

The feeling that I get when I’m there is unlike any other. The stadium has such a celebrated history, and when I’m sitting there, right smack-dab in the middle of Red Sox Nation, I realize that I have become part of that history. I can almost see the ghosts of games played- Babe Ruth bringing the crowd to its feet, Ted Williams not tipping his cap or Dave Roberts sliding under Derek Jeter’s tag in Game 4. It’s an eerie, almost surreal feeling.

Erected in 1912, Fenway Park is the oldest in the Major Leagues. But what is even more fascinating to me is the significance of the structures within the structure. Fenway has almost as many separate pieces of storied real estate as Washington D.C Every historical dimension and feature provides interesting obstacles challenging to players, but entertaining for fans.
Even though almost of all you are quite familiar with it, I will give you a brief verbal tour of this slice of heaven known as Fenway.

First of all, the Green Monster is the most synonymous feature connected to baseball lore in the entire country. To players, the 37-foot spectacle stands out in left field as a haunting reminder that home runs do not come easily in the Major Leagues. At a reasonably short distance of 315 ft., it is riddled with dents of homers, destined to be reduced to wall-ball singles.
Despite the particularly short porch in left, Fenway owns one of the longest centerfields in the league. At 420 ft. from home plate, it is said that the stadium’s centerfield is where triples go to die.

Not wanting to be left out of Fenway’s list of oddball dimensions, right field also has its share of secrets and adventures. Besides for a low concrete slab, which gives the baseball a pinball machine-like effect, right fielders must deal with blinding glare of the setting sun, which can disable their ability to locate a fly ball. At around 380 ft, Fenway’s right field is one of the most feared amongst outfielders, who must learn to adapt to its tricky nature.

But, keep in mind that the field isn’t the only feature that could share an anecdote. The press box would boast about how it held the presence of broadcasting legends Curt Gowdy, Ken Coleman and, now, Jerry Remy and Don Orsillo. The visitors’ dugout would talk about the games when it hosted legends like Mickey Mantle, Frank Robinson and Whitey Ford.

This delightful little ballpark hosts over 36,200 seats, and every one of them has a story to tell. Two of those seats include Seat 3 and Seat 4. They are the ones with which my family holds partnership.

One of my favorite stories from sitting in those seats is from a game played back in 2001. It was pitcher Bryce Florie’s first game back after a devastating injury suffered just the year before.

On Sept. 8, in a game where he was pitching against the New York Yankees, Florie was drilled in the face by a line drive off the bat of outfielder Ryan Thompson. (A pitch thrown 96 mph is estimated to be hit back at around 120 mph). The impact fractured his cheekbone, as well as his orbital socket and damaged his retina. It took him out of baseball for about a year.

Then on the night I was there, I saw one of the most emotional spectacles in my life. About two-thirds of the way through the game, manager Jimy Williams came out to the mound to initiate a pitching change. However, this was no ordinary pitching change. As Williams signaled for his righty, the Fenway Faithful simultaneously rose to their feet. As soon as the intercom started blasting rock music, the stadium announcer declared, “Ladies and Gentlemen, coming into the game…Bryce Florie.” With that the pitcher trotted in from the bullpen and Fenway exploded into pandemonium. I got this feeling inside of me that is hard to describe. But, I know that I felt everything Florie did at that moment. I was as excited, nervous and misty-eyed, as I’m sure he was. The fans gave him an ovation unlike any I had ever heard before. His brave comeback from such a devastating injury made the vicinity come together, as one.

This moment is a perfect example of why Fenway Park means so much to so many fans, including myself. Red Sox Nation is not merely a club, but more like a family. When Florie made his dramatic comeback on that cool night in 2001, Sox fans young and old rose to their feet to welcome back one of their brothers, whom they had never forgotten about.

However, my story is just one of millions that could be told by millions of people. Other stories would be of a stadium full of people holding their collective breath as Carlton Fisk frantically waved his arms, begging his home run to stay fair in 1975. Carl Yaztremski hitting his 400th home run into the right field bullpen. Or about Ted Williams embracing a Fenway crowd one last time at the 1999 All-Star Game.

And though the Sox ended the 86-year old Curse of the Bambino in 2004, I can still hear and feel the despair of deceased fans who passed away waiting for the championship that came just a little too late. As corny as it may sound, there is a sort of brotherhood among the members, past and present, of Red Sox Nation. I sympathize with the generations of diehard fans and Royal Rooters whose time simply ran out before their beloved BoSox could bring home the crown.

But, I can’t help feeling that when the Sox held the victory parade after winning the World Series, that the ghosts of Red Sox past, including my Italian immigrant great-grandfather, Crescenzo DiMichele, were right there by my side. Together we celebrated with the Sox and thanked them for finally bringing one home to Boston.