Originally published April 14, 1992, by Mike Barnicle for The Boston Globe
Yesterday was no day to play baseball and the Red Sox went right out and proved it, losing to Baltimore 86 on a fiveparka afternoon. It was an odd event, an opener conducted in weather colder than a Patriots finale.
Admiral Byrd would have had difficulty going five innings yesterday. By the bottom of the second, 30,000 bladders were bursting with more coffee than you’ll find in all of Colombia, the country not the college.
Still, it was baseball being played out there, the greatest sport ever dreamed up. The stands were split right down the middle between optimists and pessimists, which meant everyone in the park was handcuffed to the Olde Towne Team, prisoners of the past always looking forward to a future painted in dreams.
By the time the Birds went one up in the first at least 15,000 fans were certain that, once again, we would have to wait until next year. While, right alongside them, were 15,000 others who think every glass is halffilled.
One group points out that the Olde Towne Team is slower than Quayle. The other simply says, “No sweat. We don’t have to run because we’ll hit a ton of homers.”
Baseball is a form of constant redemption. It’s a cheer erupting for Don Zimmer when Sherm Feller calls his name.
It’s the crowd applauding Matt Young, who is on the verge of becoming a folk hero because he is a sad sack. He is the guy who never gets the girl, who always has his car stolen and misses out on the Honor Roll because of a D in Shop.
Sure, we make too much of it in this little big town but it truly is King. Always has been.
It dominates the front of our minds and the back of our newspapers. It pushes football, basketball and hockey to the rear burner 365 days a year.
Much more than all the others, it is a game of stories and endless flashbacks that allow the spectator, even the momentary pedestrian walking his or her way through an occasional afternoon in the ballyard, the opportunity to wallow in memory without feeling foolish.
It’s not nostalgia because the sport does not die or grow old. No calendar can capture, imprison or provide a mental boundary for baseball.
So yesterday, even with the discomfort of temperature, there was this kid maybe 8 years old coming down the street outside the park in the chill of midmorning. The guy with him held his hand tightly and the two were engrossed in a conversation for the ages.
The kid talked about hitters. The man discussed pitchers, managers and disappointments.
The adult knew one of the fellows at the gate so they were let in early, hours ahead of the front running crowd, in time for the most important part of the ritual: batting practice.
They took the best seats in the house, right on the rail alongside the backstop, territory of the rich or connected. They sat there, checking out the two teams, watching as different members of the Red Sox emerged from the dugout to play catch or jog lightly in the brilliant green of the outfield.
This is when the park shines, when it is at its best: Uncrowded, nearly empty, filled only with the echo of balls off bats and the childlike banter of grown men who are paid to play a boy’s game.
They watched infield practice. They studied the swings of the hitters who prowled and pawed the dirt in the cage as a coach threw endless pitches right over the plate.
To the kid, the players seemed bigger than dreams. To the man, they looked the way they’d looked to him ever since his first trip to this same place a long, long time ago.
There was no school yesterday. There never has been on a day like that and work was only a place to be called with a good excuse.
As the sun pushed toward noon, the differences in their age seemed to recede. The conversation was one of equals, not kid and adult, not father talking to son. Just another baseball morning.
The boy almost jumped over the rail each time he spotted someone he’d only heard about: Dropo, Doerr, Pesky or Junior Stephens. And he had to catch his breath as soon as God made his entrance on to the sparkling stage wearing No. 9 on his back and a crooked grin on his famous face.
All he could do was sit there, mute, pointing his finger toward The Kid. The father merely nodded and smiled.
Maybe it was warmer then. Maybe life was simpler. Maybe we magnify this thing called baseball out of all proportion, seeking to turn a game into a metaphor.
Who cares? All I know is that my father has been dead for more than three decades and the only place he truly lives still is a place called Fenway Park. He was there yesterday and so was I and guess what? the loss only mattered to one of us.
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