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Denver-Mall.Com
Press Release : Article : Denver Colorado
Dreams of Fenway - filed by Bev Saidel September 4th, 2008
I am not sure why, but one of the things I always wanted to do as an
adult was watch the Red Sox play baseball at Fenway Park. It could be
because I have always liked baseball. I remember going to Chavez Ravine
as a kid and watching the LA Dodgers play ball. We also had tickets to
the Big A. But somehow the Angels never quite matched up to watching
Sandy Koufax play ball or having the opportunity to see the famous
players of the National League strut their stuff.
When the League announced “expansion,” those of us who had moved to
cities with no major league baseball began to be full of hope about the
opportunity to once again see major league baseball in the cities where
we lived. I remember the excitement that I felt when Denver, Colorado
became one of the cities that had been chosen. Before long, a new team
came into being -- The Colorado Rockies. The city turned out the red
carpet and our dreams came true when in the first year of its inception,
the Rockies nabbed the pennant with the help of a little known group of
players, the Blake Street Bombers.
Coors Field came next. This beautiful and awesome field was everything
that a baseball fan dreamed of. We could hardly believe our eyes the
first time we entered Coors Field. There was a waterfall and a trout
pond, every seat had a great view of the field, the massive screen
showed every replay with a clarity that we all envied. The food was
great and the excitement resonated. Baseball became number two in a town
that heretofore had turned to football or basketball or ice hockey for
its “sports fix.” Well number two in summer at least...
And yes, we had it all. All the sports that anyone could want. But
something was missing. What we didn’t have was the aspect of history
that other fields in the country had. And as we watched, the history
that we did have became its own part of the past. Mile High Stadium was
torn down and became Invesco Field at Mile High and McNichols Arena was
also demolished, a new location was chosen and the Pepsi Center or “The
Can” to those in the know was added to our list of sports venues. The
longevity and the history of days gone by were gone. The destruction of
these fields left us wanting.
New is good. But new also causes one to forget that part of sports that
creates just a bit of awe and a dash of mystery. Fenway Park and Yankee
Stadium are all that are left of that. These are stadiums that boasted
an endless stream of consecutive sell-outs, an endless history of greats
who had been “the boys of summer.” The names Ruth and Yastrzemski,
Williams and Fisk and Berra and Mantle along with the unmistakable
nicknames chosen for these venues -- “America’s Most Beloved Park” or
“the Fens” or “The House that Ruth Built,” “The Cathedral of Baseball”
that thing called “history.” That was what was missing.
 And so I realized that as much as the game and as much as its players
were special, so was the location of the game. With relatives in Boston,
Fenway became my goal. Each summer, out of three, I tried, I cajoled, I
requested. Each time, I failed. I was reminded of what I already knew.
It was a quote that most Bostonians knew by heart. “On August 12, 2008
the Red Sox sold out its 456th consecutive game.” In other words, if you
wanted a seat, you’d have to be willing to pay. And so I became resolved
to the fact that I’d probably never see the Red Sox play at Fenway. Oh
sure, I could take the Fenway Tour, but I knew deep down inside that I’d
probably never, ever see the likes of anyone named Pedroia play at
Fenway.
In late August of 2008, on the way home from a bachelorette party for my
cousin, I came as close to Fenway as I thought I would ever get. We
drove through the Kenmore Square area and while doing so, my cousin
pointed upwards to indicate the green walls of Fenway. I craned my neck
and for the briefest moment, saw a tiny bit of green, the green of my
field of dreams.
The in early September, completely out of the blue, I received word.
Cousin Nora had been given two, count ‘em, two tickets to Wednesday’s
1:30 game. I learned that she wanted to go. I learned that most of her
friends had returned to school. I learned that I was invited to join
her. WoW!
I can’t tell you exactly how I felt when I got on the MBTA train that
took us to Kenmore Square. I can’t tell you what it meant to be walking
in the thick crowd of excited fans who were moments away from walking
through the hallowed entrance of Fenway’s dark underworld. I can’t tell
you how it felt when a young man who worked for the Sox asked us if we
wanted a “fan foto” or how it felt when we stood for the singing of the
National Anthem or how we held our breath when the first pitch was
tossed.
I can tell you what I thought about. I thought about all of the
thousands of people who preceded me through the great doors of Fenway’s
hallowed halls. I thought of those people who thrilled to the
athleticism of Jackie Robinson and Carlton Fisk and those who knew about
Pesky’s Pole, The Belly and the famous Green Monster. I thought of
everyone who would take home a foul ball that they had somehow managed
to catch “on the fly” and of the kids who in their Red Sox t-shirts
would eat a Fenway Frank and cheer their favorite player. I thought
about how each person’s history would add to their story of the day and
how I would do the same.
And as I left the game and considered it all amongst the happy throng of
Red Sox fans, I felt a wondrous thrill. I had just met my goal. I had
sat on the third base line, on the main level, just behind home plate. I
had experienced the joy of watching baseball in a place that was soon to
become the only one of its kind - Fenway Park, a true and enduring
shrine to baseball.
Beverly A. Saidel is a freelance writer and photographer, and a true
lover of baseball.
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