Summer memories created anew
Pregame ceremony at Fenway Park brought to mind pilgrimage as youth
I was 15 the year my father took me, my brother Cameron, and our mom to a Boston Red Sox game in fabled Fenway Park. It was our first big, big league adventure.
I had leaned toward Ebbets Field in Brooklyn, but knowing that even thinking about steering his way into and out of Flatbush would have had Father tied up in knots, Fenway it was.
I was fine with that. Fenway was closer. It was also home to Cameron’s favourite ballplayer, Ted Williams, one of the greatest to ever play the game.
And this way we got to see him in person.
But first we had to get to the ballpark. Back then, before Google Maps, Boston was a nightmare to navigate.
Dad gave it the old college try but, eventually, even he had to admit he was lost: he had no idea where we were.
Needing to vent man-style, away from tender ears, he stepped onto the sidewalk, almost bumping into a passerby. They got to talking and when my father asked him if he could help us find Fenway Park, the passerby, somewhat puzzled, pointed to nearby tower lights.
“That’s it. Right over there,” he said.
Gobsmacked, my father, after catching his breath, then dared ask about parking.
“Why not stay right here,” the fellow opined. “Fenway’s barely a block or two away.”
It was a Saturday and with attendance barely reaching 10,000 there were plenty of seats available. We found ours between first and home, and from then on things went swimmingly, with Boston defeating the Baltimore Orioles, 5-4.
We had been counting on seeing Ted Williams, a real live Ted Williams, hit a home run. Sadly, that day, in four plate appearances, he never got the ball out of the infield.
We watched Sunday’s game on television. And you know what’s coming. Ted, batting third in the bottom of the first inning, did what we had sorely anticipated the day before; he hit a three-run homer.
This episode came to mind a few days ago when I found myself once more back at Fenway Park, this time by invitation.
Along with my colleague Daniel Papillon, a man even more passionate about baseball than I, we took part in an on-field, pregame, first pitch ceremony held shortly before the cry of play ball echoed across the diamond.
Papillon and I are co-authoring the biography of the man being celebrated that evening, Roland Hemond. Originally from Rhode Island, with roots deeply entrenched in Quebec, Hemond was being honoured as one of baseball’s most gracious, brilliant, and gifted general managers, and his family had invited us to join in.
Along the way, we had the pleasure of meeting and talking with Dave Dombrowski, president of baseball operations for the Red Sox (and formerly of the Expos), who is proud to call Hemond his mentor.
So there we were, two Quebecers standing among the 30-odd invitees on the field, all, surreptitiously, staring agog at the 20,000 and more already in their seats. And waiting for the picturetaking.
Soon enough Hemond delivered the ritual pregame toss, and when followed by the umpire’s call of “play ball” we knew it was time to leave the field.
But for those few minutes, before for heading to the stands, we had been on the inside, part of an elite inner circle.
And you know what, it felt kinda good.