On April 20, 2012, Fenway Park, home of the Boston Red Sox, turns 100 years old.
In my dreams, one of the skyboxes at the park is my studio apartment. I live there year round, writing, reading, doing my life. My husband lives with me and our 2 cats. Our son comes to visit often. In the summers, my backyard is a ball field, filled up with baseball. The players, the plays, the smell of hot dogs and the sound of peanut shells cracking open and bats cracking homers. The "bang" of the ball against the tinny wall that is the Green Monster. The silence of the wind carrying a homer over the wall, landing in Yawkey Way.
In my memories, I remember walking with my husband and son and all kinds of people dressed in Red Sox ball caps from the hotel to the ballpark. That feeling of being with "my people." The excitement building with each step. Seeing the signs: "Yawkey Way," getting closer and then, "Fenway Park: home of the Boston Red Sox." Walking Yalkey Way, under the banners for all the years they've won championships. The rush of being close, handing over my ticket, going through the gate, getting hit with a blast of hot dogs and burgers and pizza smells. That special gift of a ticket to my friend's skybox, along the 3rd base line. Walking in, through, and out to the seats to so much green.
Sitting with my family. Comfy. Happy. Well. Watching Jon Lester pitch and Jonathan Papelbon close. Thinking, really, does it get any better than this?
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