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
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
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
And, as we returned to the hotel through the dark