Our first fall baseball foray had the potential to be as magical as Boston can be at this time of the year, but as we set off on our annual BroSox Adventure, it felt like the world decided to continue taking a dump on any fun plans I might have made this summer, and with all the obstacles mounting, this trip was doomed from the start.
It began with our rescheduled structure- we had originally penned in an August Red Sox game, when summer would be at its height, but reality intervened and made our original date impossible. Shifting to September thanks to a lovely birthday gift from Sherri and Skip, it sounded like we might make our very first fall outing. That was fraught with its own memories – my very first Red Sox game with my family was in the fall of 1986, when they were in the running for the series. That trip remains a happy family vacation memory, as much for the game as for the brown paper bag of four paperwhite narcissus bulbs that I had procured at Faneuil Hall prior to the game. A return that reminded me of that game could be a welcome reminiscence, or prove a tricky bit of sadness if it only recalled things I’d lost – either way, Skip was a safe friend to have along for such a moment, and the idea of a fall baseball game without heat and humidity was a refreshing change of pace.
As we finalized our tentative plans, Skip noticed that the tickets he ordered were not for the Saturday game as we originally planned, but for Sunday afternoon at 1:30. We’d usually be returning home to upstate New York by 1:30 on Sunday afternoon. He put those tickets up on SeatGeek, but at this point in a losing season, there were no takers for seats at half that price. The weather forecast was suddenly looking pretty awful too, so we ended up going forward with the Sunday game plan. Honestly, I didn’t mind as long as it didn’t mess up our traffic flow, which would already be disrupted by a Friday afternoon departure.
That drive into Boston was lovely. The sun was out and behind us, just like summer on its final day of the season, and we made good time right up until the end, when a sign indicated that the seven miles to Boston would take 28 minutes. Skip was driving by that point so I leaned back, let go, and let God, as the quasi-religious gypsies say. It worked, as we made it into town half an hour later, found a parking space, and were slurping on pho in Chinatown as a warm welcome to a cozy fall weekend. We walked off the soup and made it home for a quiet Friday night in.
The next morning was overcast, with rain encroaching on the rest of the weekend. After the short misty walk around the corner, a pair of counter seats at Charlie’s Diner proved available for a late breakfast, which included some of the best biscuits Skip claimed to have ever had. We made a customary walk along Newbury for the tranquility of Muji and provisions from Eataly. A welcome nap (as we are at the age of necessary naps, and grunting whenever we bend over to reach something) and some snacking passed the bulk of mid-afternoon. Our favored stoop-watching practice was derailed by the rain, but we had a loftier vantage point from the window.
Dinner that night was at the Smoke Shop BBQ at the Seaport, where we’d also planned on checking out the mini-golf scene at Puttshack. Continuing the doom and gloom of this particular trip, the whole evening was booked, thanks to the weather at hand driving people indoors, and all the damn college kids now inhabiting the city. That’s the most blessed thing about summer in Boston: they’re all gone. And yet somehow we had a grand time at dinner. More than grand, in fact, as I was aided by an edible, and time seemed to still as I got lost in laughter in a way I haven’t done since before summer began.
Outside, the rain came down, and we made hurried motions to cross the river back into Boston proper, where we found our way to the Langham Hotel for a moment in their chill lobby. There were memories here too – fall memories, coming at the same time of the year in which they were first made – and they should have proved at least slightly problematic, but thanks to Skip’s indefatigable attitude, we found fun in a hopeless place. When at last our Uber dropped us off, we sailed deep into the night playing Heads Up until we both crashed.
Game day dawned with the threat of rain. With the closing of our beloved Cafe Madeleine, Flour would have to stand in, even if it was a longer walk, and a more annoying line. We took our food to go, had a brief siesta back at the condo, and as the rain started in earnest we began our trek to take the T rather than get gouged by a $31 Uber trip to Fenway. By the time the above photo was taken, in the muggy “subterranean hell” of the Copley Station T-stop, both of us were thinking that $31 would have been a steal after some crazy person jumped onto the tracks and stopped subway traffic for half an hour.
We arrived to a rainy game already deep into the first inning. Our seats were soaked, but a friendly woman in the next row up gave us a wadded-up pile of napkins to wipe them off. Our raincoats were working overtime, but the seats were good, and as we sat down and soaked our asses, it looked like the sky was brightening.
“That’s just the game lights,” Skip assured me. Oh, of course. And the longer we sat there, the more it rained.
The mind wanders at such times. I looked out onto the field and tried to remember the first baseball game that my Dad took us to – it was there, but the memory was different. That day had been crisp and sunny. We had been young. The world had felt hopeful. On this day, the rain came down harder. The world felt darker. But I was with a friend, and out again in the world, even if it had dimmed since earlier in the summer.
“Wait,” I said suddenly, as my eyes fell upon the other team going underground, “Is it called a dugout because it’s like ‘dug out’?” The revelation felt almost too simple – and what kind of simpleton calls a place such a stupid thing?
Skip laughed a little and said, yes, then marveled that the realization was coming 48 years into my life.
By the fifth inning, the rain was pouring down. We were soaked, but we hadn’t had our Fenway Franks yet, so we headed indoors, scarfed down the dogs, and walked around inside, heading upstairs as throngs of people began leaving.
“Where is everyone going?” I asked.
“They’re leaving!” Skip laughed.
“For good?”
“Yeah!”
We stood in the rafters looking at the scene below. A tarp had been pulled over the diamond, and Skip proposed leaving. The last time we left a game early, Neil Diamond came out and sang ‘Sweet Caroline’ live just minutes after we exited the park. This time, there would be no song and dance, and as the rain showed no sign of abating, we joined the crowds exiting into the pouring rain, and were back on the Mass Turnpike headed for home within an hour.
This should have been the worst BroSox Adventure we’ve ever had – instead, it was one of my favorites, and I don’t remember having this much fun with Skip in years. It was also one of the first excursions after the awfulness of this summer, and it was precisely what was needed. I think it was good for Skip too – his spring was as difficult as my summer, and we were both in need of letting loose. Looking at the pictures here, I am smiling because they don’t exactly portray the fun that was had, which cracks me up even more, and Skip would say the same.
I’d almost forgotten the powerful healing aspect of simply hanging out with a cherished friend. The older we get, the darker the world grows, and finding refuge in such a friendship is the surest method of finding your way home. Thanks Skip.
