Forgive Me, Father

Melissa Hughes

Dear Dad,

Just got back from Boston and oh, what a series against the Mets!

The tour group's evil bus driver got lost on the way to Fenway Friday night, turning a 15-minute trip into an hour. On the way, we find out that our 7pm start is pushed back an hour due to a power outage. I circumnavigated Fenway several times, waiting for the gates to open, marveling at all the surrounding bars, clubs and souvenir shops.

Fenway is in the middle of a city, whereas Shea is in the middle of a parking lot. It makes a big difference in terms of total ballpark experience. People will miss Fenway when it is gone, but there will be no nostalgic reminiscing of Shea when the construction of the Mets, new ballpark gets underway.

If you go two blocks from Fenway, you'd never know it was there, but you can see the eyesore that is Shea from a mile away. People go there, see a game, and leave immediately for lack of anything to keep them in the area. Here, nobody seemed to be in any particular hurry to get inside, where there would undoubtedly be less going on.

Mets fans were out in full force: Piazza jerseys, T-shirts, and hats abounded. It made you wonder if they were all from out of town, as we were, or if they were AL-shunning locals who adopted the Mets as the nearest available NL team. There is taunting from both sides but it is somehow friendlier, for lack of a better word, than the stuff I heard when I saw the Mets play the Yanks only a week ago.

The troops were getting restless, but I wiled away the time by perusing the plethora of merchandise and purchasing the postcard you hold before you.

They finally opened the gates at 7:40. The lights were on, everybody's home, but none of the food was cooked yet, since they only just got the juice back. The sausage man, wielding a meat thermometer the likes of which I've never seen at Shea (they just sell 'em pink), tells me to check back in 35 minutes.

I settled into my seat in the grandstand on the third base side, facing across the outfield, as opposed to actually facing the plate. This afforded me a great view of the bullpens and little else. The posts holding up the joint blocked any chance I may have had at seeing the mound. In spite of this, I found the park to be both cozy and breathtaking. It is, without a doubt, the most photogenic of ballparks. I snapped some photos, taking note of all the bizarre chanting going on.

"Let's go Red Sox!" was quickly squelched out by Mets fans yelling, "MEL-vin MO-ra," who homered and drove in three runs. (Although, Dad, I am convinced it was more because the name Melvin Mora, with two syllables in both his first and last names, lends itself well to chanting).

Your Future-Son-In-Law, Mike Piazza, hit a pair of homers over the Green Monster, sending Mets fans into a frenzy of "19-18" chants. An irate Red Sox fan responded by yelling "REY-or-DON-ez," which brought only laughter from Mets fans who don't miss watching our injured shortstop swing from his ass at every plate appearance. We did what any good Mets, fan would do and retorted with the default taunt, "BI-ill BUCK-ner." CLAP-CLAP-clap-clap-clap.

While others in my tour group were engaged in leading our section in a rousing chorus of "Meet the Mets," I noticed all the fights that kept breaking out in surrounding sections. (Relax, Papa, I was nowhere near this rowdiness.) The security team, decked in head-to-toe white -- not unlike the Good Humor Ice Cream men of my childhood -- busied themselves hauling away equal portions of belligerent Mets and Red Sox fans.

I did notice that it seemed as though all one had to do was point at a random fan, and it was enough to get them hauled off in chains, puzzled expressions and all. Trouble? They just weren't having it. Not at Fenway, not tonight.

Unless you were looking at the field, that is. There was a Dennis Cook-inspired, bench-clearing, non-brawl, although we had no idea at the time what the ruckus was about (remember, I couldn't see the mound). Both benches and both bullpens emptied, everyone converged, then...nothing happened. The Mets sat down, the Red Sox sat down, and the fans sat down.

We celebrated our 6-4 victory on the bus as it headed to the post-game cocktail party hosted by Mets manager Bobby Valentine, a part of our tour. The game started late, and therefore ended late, so we were skeptical that Mr. Valentine will even appear at the party. The tour guide insisted there will still be a party and he will be there. As the bus departed, I spy a group of drunken guys in Mets jerseys taunting some Boston cops by chanting "N-Y-P-D."

We arrived at the players' hotel (Sheraton) and walked right past the bar, which looked VERY hopping, and made our way to a 3rd floor conference room, containing several round tables and chairs, a buffet in the middle, a bar in the front. We got settled (and I checked vigilantly for anyone who looks as though he may go by the handle "Brad34") and then here's Bobby! He was met with wild applause, which he acknowledges on his way to the bar.

His opening line -- "So what are we drinking? Beer? Sounds fine. Not that I ever drink" -- was met with laughter. He grabs a beer, stands in the middle of the room and asks, "So am I supposed to do a little soft-shoe or what? Oh, questions, I can do that."

I was with a group of intelligent, hard-core fans eager to ask some questions. What was the brawl about? Jimy Williams suspected Dennis Cook of raising the seams on the ball, so he requested that they start checking them. Cook hit Carl Everett with a pitch, and got ejected for hitting a batter after a warning, which AL rules dictate means an automatic ejection of the manager as well. Mr. Valentine slyly noted that this got somehow overlooked. We all got a good laugh out of that.

Cook was steamed, Valentine explained, because Everett tends to stand practically on the plate, which means even a strike might hit him. He demonstrated by saying, "If this is the plate right here...(drags a line across the carpet with his foot), then Carl stands here...(stands directly on the line.)"

He happily offers to sign autographs and pose for pictures, so I hand him an 8x10 that my friend Pete took of him in Spring Training. He does not leave until every autograph is signed and every picture is posed for.

We hit the hotel bar afterward, and are dismayed to find that we have in fact missed last call. So we head to Chinatown on the recommendation of a bellhop, who tells us that if we ask for "cold tea," we will be brought a teapot of beer.

We try it, but they are all out of "tea." A patron at the next table confirms that this is the reason they were there too. We are shocked and delighted at this new bit of tourist information, even though it didn't result in us obtaining beer or, for that matter, tea of any kind.

The next day, with newly honed navigational skills, our driver takes us back to Fenway on a beautiful Saturday afternoon. I indulge in a bowl of Clam Chowder, then make my way to my ticketed seat.

Now, to not see the mound is one thing, to not see the plate is wholly another. I amble to a customer service booth and calmly state my case. I am referred to two other booths before I am asked, "Would a seat under the netting, but right behind the plate be ok?"

"Hell, yeah."

I am pleased to find myself between two posts, behind the Player's Wives section, a mere six rows from my future father-in-law, Vince Piazza. I turn behind me and ask a woman to take my picture, with the scoreboard in the background. She points to the DiamondVision in the outfield and asks, "You mean that?" Her boyfriend laughs, "No, dear, I think she means the that," he says, pointing toward the most famous scoreboard in baseball.

In the second inning, Carl Everett's at-bat is held up as the umpire starts dragging his foot across the batter's box, drawing a line in the sand and incensing Everett to no end. This move looks vaguely familiar, where had I seen it before? I remember that it is not unlike the move Bobby Valentine made as he demonstrated Everett's preferred stance within the batter's box just one night before!

Everett headbutts the umpire and is ejected. While he throws everything he can get his hands on onto the field, I explain to the little boy sitting next to me that Carl Everett is about to be given a very long time-out.

The Mets go on to lose the game 6-4, and as I leave the ballpark I am caught between cheers of "Let's go Mets!" and "New York sucks!" Then, one loud peace-loving fan begins the chant that finally, both sides can agree on.

"Yankees Suck!"

Hugs from your favorite daughter, Melissa

about the author

Melissa Hughes missed her father's birthday to make this trip. Ease her guilty conscience at melissah@earthlink.net by reminding her that birthdays are every year, but Fenway's not forever.