A Piece of the Park – Ed Iannuccilli

by Ed Iannuccilli, commentary

Opening day is near. I can smell the leather and hear the bats. I can taste the Fenway Franks, the cold Coke and the salty peanuts.

Decades ago, Dad took me to a fairy tale, Fenway. I stepped through the gates, walked up the aisle and entered a world of magic.

The first time I walked into the park, I stood fixed, staring at the left field wall, the Green Monster in a tight space; the giant that hung over Boston. It was so close.

“Dad, I could hit that wall. How come they all don’t?”

“It’s not that easy, Edward.”

The rap-rap-rap of batting practice. We arrived early because the Sox took batting practice first. Crack, ping, crack, ping . . .

Were there dents in the wall? Yep, the dents were from balls screaming off bats. Rap, rap, rap . . . the Gatling Gun.

For years I could imitate the batting stance of every starting player.

“Look, Dad, it’s Ted.”

Williams. my hero. Seeing him in left field was seeing a god. What was it like to be so close to a deity when you were ten?

When I was a kid, Boston was a two—team—town: the Braves and the Red Sox. We had a television. We watched the games. Lucky me because The games were played during the daytime, so that every afternoon when I arrived from school, I flipped the TV to a game. Even the World Series was played under the sun.

The Braves with Spahn, Sain, Sisti, Holmes, et. al. Oh yeah, I know; “Spahn and Sain and pray for rain.”

The Red Sox with Williams, Doerr, Jensen, Dom DiMaggio, Parnell to name a few.

Fenway was the destination, the mecca, a kingdom. Dad once took me to a doubleheader to see the Yankees. Yes, same day, one price, two games, DiMaggio and Williams: the greatest hitters in the world. I desperately wanted my hero, Ted, to hit a home run. He didn’t. DiMaggio hit three.

I barreled through a Fenway Frank, then some peanuts, then an ice cream bar, a Coke and then I was done. “Dad, I gotta go.” No, I did not want to leave the game. I had to make another stop.

I was an explorer who reached my goal, my Holy Grail. I still believed I had a better chance of hitting that wall than pulling a sword out of a rock.

I have a friend who once threw the ceremonial first pitch at Fenway. “I deliberately threw it into the dirt.”

“Why?”

“Because when they gave me the ball, I took home a piece of the park.”

What brought us to Fenway year after year? Was it hope? Was it a restoration? Was it the hot dogs?

It was the game, always the game. Baseball brings us back.

So, if you get the chance, make sure your first pitch hits the dirt.

___

Ed Iannuccilli – edwrites.net