Day 2: Sunday, October 1st
Pin-sharp, clear blue sky.
The Freedom Trail. The route is thoughtfully embedded in the sidewalks around the city. Follow the line and don’t break free. Feels a bit like a school outing.
One costumed guide, not missing a beat of his oratory, puts his hand over his face every time I raise my camera to take a shot of him. I haven’t paid to be in his group. Sharp.
Graveyards. History. Names we vaguely know but not quite sure exactly who they were or what they did. Paul Revere. Japanese. Wars I’ve never heard of. Tea party. Japanese. Oyster House. Presidents.
Dawdling, wide-eyed foreigners in a foreign land that we feel we ‘know’ so well already. Wrong. Other nation’s important memories laid out before us. Odd to feel that we were the enemy once. How dare they. Feel rather English and a bit superior. I guess that’s where we went wrong? These kids. Give ‘em an inch.
…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….
The Red Sox are at home to Houston Astros today.
Take the ‘M’ to Fenway Park, the oldest baseball park in the US. Buy tickets for the bleachers. Not entirely sure what this means but I guess the clue’s in the name. And today the sun is blinding.
It is all we’d hoped for. Packed ground. Noise. History. Shouting. Fenway Frank’s hot dogs, overpriced beer, razz ‘m’ tazz!
Two young brothers sitting behind us are obviously fanatics and critique every ball, every play, and every player. They look like they probably live at home with their mom and have very little interest in anything else other than the Red Sox. Who knows? I hope ‘we’ win. For their sakes.
At every opportunity, loud music is played over the tannoy and people sing or dance extravagantly, hoping the TV cameras will pick them out of the crowd for their moment of fame in the sun. One small boy in front is desperate to impress. He’s a great mover but doesn’t get spotted.
The Americans’ sense of pride in their forces’ veterans is obvious everywhere during our trip. Here at Fenway we all stand as the amount of money raised here for their cause is announced and ‘God Bless America’ is played. They wear their hearts on their sleeves here and in my English way I feel awkward at not singing or joining in without the means to explain to the whole crowd that I’m an atheist, I’m not American and I’m not being unpatriotic or disrespectful. The brothers hold their hands on their hearts as they sing….
It’s hard not to feel a little envious at the feeling of comradeship, togetherness and, dare I say it, patriotism.
The Red Sox theme tune invokes less of a moral quandary. Everyone sings along to ‘Sweet Caroline’ and I try to pick out any references that might help me to understand why it’s sung. Whatever its provenance the two young men behind us sing out; lost in the moment. Or maybe found?
The actual game, being played out in a far corner of this foreign field, seems almost incidental. Baseball is essentially just a game of rounders. But in an effort to increase it’s mystery, statistics are employed to add importance to every. Single. Thing. That. Happens. The monolithic Rosetta Stone that is the scoreboard is a mass of unintelligible numbers and acronyms, with the important bit (the score) buried somewhere in the mix. Without a sense of how the game is playing out, it’s hard to generate a sense of anticipation for the ‘final whistle’. The game ends and the only way we can be sure of who has won is by the body language of the teams. And by asking the guy in front of us. 4-3 Astros. So the Astros obviously scored one more than the Red Sox. Got it? Long deliberations by the brothers on the way home I suspect.
Much later in our trip, waiting for the plane to New York to take us home, the TV screen shows the Astros playing the LA Dodgers and I watch, now feeling a sense of ownership, if not exactly allegiance to, the game of baseball. This country is infectious.
We take the ‘A’ back to our stop, Lechmere, a bus to Winter Hill, pick up some food from the store and walk a couple of blocks to Thurston St. A home run. We’re practically locals now.
christopheratcoastmoor