Good times never felt so good

A week ago this past Sunday, and nearly ten years to the hour that kid number two emerged into this world, we left our downtown Beantown hotel under the gray skies of a threatening thunderstorm. We’d seriously overpaid for a set of unrefundable tickets to see the the hometown Red Sox challenge the MF’n Yankees at Fenway Park, in part to celebrate the kid’s first decade, and in larger part to appease her Dad’s 35 year obsession with all things baseball, and the Sox in particular.

From the tinted window of a nondescript PF Chang’s, we watched as the New England skies darkened, inner city trees bent sideways, and artsy urban fountains carelessly sprayed the sidewalks in ominously foreshadowning winds. Then the Gods, who we reckoned at the time are not true baseball fans, unleashed a torrent of raindrops the size of buffalo nickels. Rush-hour walkers ducked for cover into the nearest shop, bar, or eatery, while our hearts sank. There was no way, even if the rain stopped, no way they could play a game after this kind of downpour.

Now I’m no great believer in fortune, especially those dispensed in stale factory wrapped cookies, but as the deluge continued, and our bithday girl blew out the lone candle on her complimentary scoop of ginger coconut ice cream, I cracked open my fortune cookie. It read:

“Good news of a long-awaited event will arrive soon.”

I put on my finest phony fortune happy face and announced it was time to break free of Chang’s chains and embark on the short, wet hike to Fenway. Rain or no, we're on the road to the Promised Land, kids.

We walked through the showers, heavy at times, joined on each passing block by other soggy yet hopeful pilgrims. Rounding the corner of Boylston and Massachusetts Avenues, the bright lights of the ballpark glimmered through the drizzle above Boston's brownstones. And at the precise moment we handed our tickets to the little old man draped with a cheap Red Sox poncho at Gate E, the rain stopped.

I’m convinced that a large part of the magic of Fenway Park eminates from the experience of walking through the archaic and chaotic stadium bowels, emerging through through the narrow breezeway into the magical world of America's baseball cathedral, with the greenest grass, the whitest uniforms, and the happiest fans. The one hour rain delay gave us time to enjoy an amazing sunset rising over the Green Monster and left field. Paraphrasing Kevin Costner, if there's a heaven, it has to look an awful lot like Fenway Park in late July.

The game did not disappoint. Our valiant Red Sox, mired in disappointing 3-10 post-All Star funk, and losers of the last two to the MF’n Yankees, took control of the game in the early innings. Jacoby Ellsbury's 1st inning running climb up the center field wall to steal a hit from Jeter; a pair of RBI doubles from Manny (the newest Dodger) Ramirez – my now-heartbroken daughter's favorite player; and an Ortiz home run hit on a line directly to us. If only we’d sat in row Q not row QQ we’d have brought that ball home!

9-4 Sox Win!, sending the boys from the Bronx slithering back to NYC.

And, as we returned to the hotel through the dark Boston streets, surrounded by hundreds of exuberant Fenway faithful, the rain began to fall once again. I don’t think anyone cared about gettin' wet at that point. And the Gods were forgiven for their earlier outburst.

Postcript: There’s a curious tradition at Fenway Park, dating all the way back to the late '90s. In the middle of the 8^th inning, the chords to Neil Diamond’s 1969 almost number one hit, "Sweet Caroline", pour from the stadium loudspeakers, quickly drowned out by 37,000 voices singing along in unison and hopelessly out of key. It is in some regards the most joyous part of the evening. Please sing along with us, albeit a few days later,as a damp summer Sunday night crowd of Fenway's faithful croon themselves and their team to victory over the MF’n Yankees. I know you know the words......

Our Seagull Lives

The afternoon sky’s a monochrome gray as I step on to my beach for the first time in almost a month. The Pacific is only a shade darker than the sky and equally unemotional. The gray sand is littered with footprints, human and avian, as well as detritus from both species. Wave-tossed plastic scraps and sand-scarred cans mingle with cracked crustacean body parts, forgotten feathers and white puddles of bird poop. It’s an underwhelming return to one of my favorite spots of the neighborhood.

The only flash of vivid color comes from the bright orange bills of terns and gulls gathered by the dozens in several large flocks up and down the beach. Large Western gulls and the only slightly smaller California gulls, near indistinguishable from each other, stride between the dual-gray, Heerman’s gulls with deep orange bills. The sleek black-headed Caspian terns appear to stand guard over clusters of smaller, shaggy-haired Elegant terns, the first I’ve noticed in my brief attempts at birding identifying out here.

Sitting here watching the birds, I’m struck by the apparent similarities of our two colonial species. I've started a list of some of those thoughts, wonderin’ if there’s a motivational book that is yet to be written….”A Seagull’s Guide to Life, Love, and Incredible Wealth” ©, or something of the sort. (I call dibs on the royalties if any of y’all write the book before I do, which I won’t, but I can be bought out for a decent bottle of wine, a polite mention in the acknowledgements, and a couple of signed first editions.)

How People and Seagulls are Sort of Alike

• We stand around in large groups, looking busy while doing lots of nothing.
• At the first sign of discomfort, we all fly off in different directions eventually returning to the exact same spot of sand.
• We greedily scavenge from someone else's effort, stealing what we can and squawking from a safe distance over someone else's rewards.
• We gather in large groups of many different species, but cluster closely with our own kind.
• We soar beautifully.
• Occasionally we like to stand alone, off to the side, out on the edge, away from the crowd.
• We breed easily with others, creating something new, indistinguishable, unique, and unidentifiable.
• We thrive everywhere.

Please feel free to add, delete, adjust, mock, or decry as you wish.

Hasta la proxima.

Back to the fold

I’m a bad blogger. ‘Twas not quite a year ago, I strolled into this endeavour, wrote an occasional egoistic monologue on nothin’ of utmost criticality, ginnin’ up a mob of two or three fawning fans with a couple of self-described clever turns of phrase, then I disappear for weeks, nay months, at a time. (Nothin’ in July! Absolutely nothin’.)

I’m sure others have said it through the course of history, but I remember reading Stephen King in his book “On Writing” sayin’ something to the effect, “If’n you want to be a writer, you have to write. Every day.” So, if anyone asks why I'm back, it's Mr King's fault.

I can’t promise every day, but I’m on the road to reforming myself, getting myself back on the right side of life and mind and body. Perhaps we’ll need another “Mind the Gap” posting now and again, but I’m stepping back into the pool, whether anyone reads the drivel presented here or not. Summer’s almost over. The crowds are beginning to dwindle. Vacation’s done come and gone. No excuses but those I invent.

Besides, gotta be in good literary standing to get an invite to the picnic, eh?