Friday, June 24, 2016


On Wednesday I turned 66.6666666.

On Thursday I turned 6 and went to a Red Sox day game with an old high school buddy.

I remember the first game I went to with my dad six plus decades ago.  I wonder if I have matured any.  I still checked when I sat down to see if I had any chance of catching a foul ball. (Had a great seat for that, but no balls came our way).  I still cheered when there was a good play in the field.  It was uplifting to see the Red Sox come back in the fifth and deflating to see them blow the lead in the top of the sixth.  I stood up to sing Take Me Out to the Ball Game during the seventh inning stretch. I wished we could stay to see the entire game (my buddy had to catch a flight back to New York and I was the driver).  I loved the feeling of being in the ballpark, hearing the vendors squawk for the peanuts, ice cream, cold beer.  (Prices have changed some for the various products).  Had to listen to four close to inebriated morons behind us who pontificated about every and anything one can imagine, but still that was part of it.

I loved seeing the little kids scurrying with their gloves.  (Gary, poked me when a foul ball came three sections over and said: "How come you didn't bring your glove?").  The fans of all shapes, ages, and sizes wearing all variations of Red Sox paraphernalia. A guy two rows in front of us must have been in his mid 80s maybe pushing 90.  A few seats over was a kid whose tush was so small he could barely stay on the seat.  Fenway park was packed at 2 pm on a bright sunny Thursday afternoon.

Not sure, thank God, that I will ever outgrow the rush of being at a ball game.

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