Low Tek

Hi. My name is Ben. And I am a Baseball Bigamist.

There. I said it. Admission is the first step towards recovery, right?

I’m a Dodgers fan. I Think Blue. My soul leaps every time we exit the 110 onto Academy Road. I believe there is only one Vin Scully and Jaime Jarrin is his Prophet. I’m convinced the Dodger home whites are brighter than any others in the league. Next time you’re at Chavez Ravine, look closely. Dodgers glow. I love how Take Me Out to the Ballgame gets an encore! I was there for Game 7 of the ’88 NLCS. Clips of Gibby’s walkoff World Series homer still squeeze a smile from my face and a tear from eye. … Every. Time. I’ve been to countless Fireworks nights. I believe Nancy Bea and her organ are one of the nation’s hidden treasures. I’d eat a Grilled Dodger Dog over a finely cut filet mignon. After all, Farmer John is Westernmost in taste. Easternmost in Quality. I’m a steadfast Adrian Beltre apologist and I still think the Top Deck is the best deal in town. I AM a Dodgers fan.

But I am also a fan of cheering.

And I find Fenway Park absolutely intoxicating. She’s seduced me. Whether it’s get away day against the Royals or Friday night versus the Yanks, Sox fans treat a trip to Fenway like a holiday. Like they had been waiting all year for this and it’s finally come. Yawkey Way is a block party complete with brats and brews and a jolly brass band. Boston has a love affair with its baseball team and that kind of relationship is infectious. I’ve been allured. My dad and I knew watching a game at the Fens was different than at Chavez the very first time we went, six years ago on a weekday night for a meaningless game against the Jays. It was only the second inning. There was no score. Toronto had a runner in scoring position with two outs and the count was full to the #8 hitter. And that’s when it happened…

The fans… Stood. Up.

We couldn’t help it. We stood up too. “This ain’t Dodger Stadium,” my dad shook his head and laughed. And it went on like that. Every inning. Every big moment. The Sox fans were on their feet. Fans are witnesses to a spiritual happening. There are even rituals. Relievers fist bump Boston cops before jogging out to the mound, the whole crowd stands up and serenades each other in Sweet Caroline like it’s a bar song, fans pay homage to Johnny Pesky by scribbling their names on the right field foul pole. People in Boston wear Sox gear like college kids wear their colors on campus. Everywhere you go, there’s a Sox sweathsirt, or an Ellsbury name and number tee. The Sox cap has become the unofficial uniform of locals. And when at the game, the whole crowd is draped in red and blue. No one is late. And no one leaves early. Yep, I’d say from game one, I was smitten.

But what makes Fenway a true gem is the potential for quotable moments from its candid and colorful fans. I cannot count the number of salacious and uproarious statements I’ve overheard while planted in a Fenway seat. Take for example, the night I popped my Fenway cherry.
My father and I were sitting in box seats, about a dozen rows from Pesky’s Pole. Home plate was at 9o’clock and my body was stiffening from the virtual yoga pose it was taking to watch the action. When two middle aged women, beers in hand, sat down in the seats behind us. Jason Varitek stepped to the plate. The rest is history.

Woman One: “C’mon Tek! Get a hit!”
Woman Two: “Tek is soooo hawt.”
Woman One: “I heard he rides a motahbike.”
Woman Two: “No sir! That makes him even hawtah.”
Woman One: “Wait. I thawt you didn’t like motahbikes.”
Woman Two: “Ah you kiddin’. I’d take Tek on the bike, in front of the bike behind, the bike, ovah the bike, undah the bike… THROOOO the bike!”

That was it. I ate the forbidden fruit. In a moment of passion, I pressed to the souvenir stand and purchased a Varitek name and number tee. I adopted Tek as my own and I wore the shirt thin.

I mention it all to say this… Yesterday, the powers that be declined to pick up Tek’s $5 million option. Jason has five days to decide whether he’ll play second fiddle to Victor Martinez or shop his tools of ignorance elsewhere on the open market. For me, this is an end of an era. Six years of adoring a catcher and a team, simply because of two drunk ladies and one t-shirt with holes in it.

Re: The Holy Lineup. Couldn’t have drafted a better team outta heaven myself (although there’s some debate amongst scholars about which side of the aisle Samson is on). I’d just make two additions.

Elisha: The young phenom September call up. He signed a whopping deal right outta high school and he’s the 5-tool star who will replace Elijah in center when the time is right.

John the Baptist: The wild eyed loner who comes outta the pen to close games. Fans rise to their feet and sing along to “Wild Thing” while he sprints through the outfield to the mound. He grabs the ball and grits his teeth, waving his arms wildly, Jose Lima-style after every save.