Thoughts on Fenway...

I went to Fenway for the first time in a dog's age the other night and watched the Sox lose to Cleveland on a series of Jed Lowrie missed-opportunities. While the outcome was unfavorable, Fenway has not lost any of its charms or ambiance. Allow me to paint a quick sketch, if you will..

A comrade from northern Maine and I were stashed up in the right field grandstands- section 5, hidden under the foreboding pall of the upper deck (which did nothing to warm an already frigid evening, I might add). There were no cup holders, no heated seats, no fan-friendly, turn-of-the-century amenities like those that soothe the spoiled bosoms of the "fans" in Arizona or St. Petersburg. Denizens of Section 5 are satisfied with a cocktail of baseball, bellowed obscenities and the rank perfume of spilled beer.

By the fifth inning my neck felt like an un-greased door hinge and my arse, which I had painstakingly managed to coerce into a plank of wood designed for an anorexic toddler, began to assume the properties of a slab of cold steel. As a last-ditch effort to stave off paralysis, I embarked on a journey into the bowels of Fenway in search of a cold brew and a hotdog. This required me to first flop and cajole my way across a motley assortment of hooligans (most of whom refused to stand, let alone shift their weight). At end of the tunnel I stepped on a girl's toes and earned a stare from her 300-pound mother that would've made Tek blush.

Anyway, I could go on detailing the nuances and potential pit-falls of Fenway. But on my way down the cement and sausage steps (as I was trying my darndest to hit the holes like a running back in his prime), I realized that there is no other place like it. In a baloney-infested world, Fenway is a preserved slice of authenticity.

Screw the new-frangled, imitation, retro faux-parks. Screw the new Yankee Stadium with its 5 kruzillion luxury suites. And screw Hank Steinbrenner just on principle. Long live Fenway, with its cramped seats, smelly patrons, and overpriced dogs.