On Friday night I was presented with a choice. It wasn't exactly Grady Little deciding between Pedro or the bullpen, but it more substantial than boxers versus boxer-briefs. This particular decision was between going to Baltimore for a Red Sox game at Camden or staying in and watching the Celtics potentially punch their ticket to the NBA Finals (and the Red Sox game).
The Quick Pros for the Sox Game made the decision easy:
+Josh Beckett pitching
+Manny Ramirez sitting on 499 HRs
+Great weather for a ballgame (80 and sunny)
+I still look 18 and can use my college ID for discounted tickets
+I'm starting to dislike watching these schizophrenic Celtics
Anyway the "decision" was made and I left work a little early to get on a train to the Chesapeake State. By 5:20 I was in Baltimore, had thrown on my Papelbon WS07 jersey, and quickly got a ticket. (Not so quick Tangent- So I am standing in the ticket line and a man in a Red Sox jersey comes up to me holding a ticket. Assuming he was trying to scalp me a ticket, I sorta shrugged him off. However he persisted and explained that his family had an extra they were gonna give away and figured since I had a Sox jersey on, I was the best candidate. He didn't want any money for it, and just said to stop by the seats during the game, buy him a beer and we'd be cool. Yadda yadda yadda, I wound up pretty buzzed by first pitch and fully drunk by the 3rd inning, enough to completely forget about my thirsty comrade. Totally a mistake on my part and I still feel horribly about it. Here's a family man with enough faith in people to give some guy a ticket, and I blew it. This is not an excuse; it was totally inexcusable and I hope karma isn’t as fickle of a bitch as fate is. And yes that is plagiarized from Lost.)
So here's the thing about Red Sox games at Camden, they're basically home games. The crowds are equal part red and orange, but the red is louder, prouder, and stays til the end. And the place where this is most evident is the pregame party.
Three bars in a line with full service outside and a temporary suspension of open container laws, Red Sox shirts and beers as far as the eye can see, and tents with freshly grilled ballpark meats. It feels like it could be Yawkee way if it Yawkee was more fun. Its three parties in one; three songs blasting from three stereos, three beer specials, three places to spit game at cute girls in Sox caps, three places that feel more like home than anything else in a 500 mile vicinity. For good measure today, there are lots of Celtics jerseys in preparation for the Game 6 closeout.
You can easy lose perspective of the scene when you’re standing in the middle of it all. To step back out of the mob is to admire the colossal glory and the magnitude of the event. Somehow only blocks away, we are emotionally miles away from the Baltimore portrayed in The Wire. Different grills, different hustles, different corners.
I met up with my friends here and walked back into the huddle that smells like barbeque and beer, looks like the party you always hope your party turns into, and sounds like R's
disapperaing from vernacular. (It also sounds like a mix of Kanye’s Stronger and Guns N’ Roses’ Sweet Child o’ Mine, a surprisingly complimentary mix.) A few more beers each, a couple hot dogs, and a great game of trash can jenga later, and we’re ready for the game.
Inside the still-young Camden Yards makes your mind wander to the 8th circle of daydream hell: why a new Fenway might not be so bad. Tonight we’re sitting in the 200s, which is the first overhang along the third base line. We have the option of a waitstaff (unused), better
food (used), and shorter beer lines (used and used). I wont continue with the boring details of the game (by far the lamest part of the night) and skip to our 10th inning decision to leave the game and head back to the pregame bars so we can watch the ending of the Celtics at the same time as the end of the Sox.
I don’t have to tell you how this one ended. Karma didn’t strike for my lack of good-will reciprocation and within the hour, the bar was chanting "Beat LA." I could have convinced myself that I had stepped through the Lost wormhole and returned to 1984 Boston. These were
followed by some R-rated cheers, a round of Sam Adams pints, and some of the most inspired chest bumps I’ve ever witnessed from white people.
And that was my night in Baltimore-upon-Boston. I felt at home in a relatively strange city, stared down karma and didn’t blink, and enjoyed a male on male chest bump a little too much. Pretty memorable night.
The Quick Pros for the Sox Game made the decision easy:
+Josh Beckett pitching
+Manny Ramirez sitting on 499 HRs
+Great weather for a ballgame (80 and sunny)
+I still look 18 and can use my college ID for discounted tickets
+I'm starting to dislike watching these schizophrenic Celtics
Anyway the "decision" was made and I left work a little early to get on a train to the Chesapeake State. By 5:20 I was in Baltimore, had thrown on my Papelbon WS07 jersey, and quickly got a ticket. (Not so quick Tangent- So I am standing in the ticket line and a man in a Red Sox jersey comes up to me holding a ticket. Assuming he was trying to scalp me a ticket, I sorta shrugged him off. However he persisted and explained that his family had an extra they were gonna give away and figured since I had a Sox jersey on, I was the best candidate. He didn't want any money for it, and just said to stop by the seats during the game, buy him a beer and we'd be cool. Yadda yadda yadda, I wound up pretty buzzed by first pitch and fully drunk by the 3rd inning, enough to completely forget about my thirsty comrade. Totally a mistake on my part and I still feel horribly about it. Here's a family man with enough faith in people to give some guy a ticket, and I blew it. This is not an excuse; it was totally inexcusable and I hope karma isn’t as fickle of a bitch as fate is. And yes that is plagiarized from Lost.)
So here's the thing about Red Sox games at Camden, they're basically home games. The crowds are equal part red and orange, but the red is louder, prouder, and stays til the end. And the place where this is most evident is the pregame party.
Three bars in a line with full service outside and a temporary suspension of open container laws, Red Sox shirts and beers as far as the eye can see, and tents with freshly grilled ballpark meats. It feels like it could be Yawkee way if it Yawkee was more fun. Its three parties in one; three songs blasting from three stereos, three beer specials, three places to spit game at cute girls in Sox caps, three places that feel more like home than anything else in a 500 mile vicinity. For good measure today, there are lots of Celtics jerseys in preparation for the Game 6 closeout.
You can easy lose perspective of the scene when you’re standing in the middle of it all. To step back out of the mob is to admire the colossal glory and the magnitude of the event. Somehow only blocks away, we are emotionally miles away from the Baltimore portrayed in The Wire. Different grills, different hustles, different corners.
I met up with my friends here and walked back into the huddle that smells like barbeque and beer, looks like the party you always hope your party turns into, and sounds like R's
disapperaing from vernacular. (It also sounds like a mix of Kanye’s Stronger and Guns N’ Roses’ Sweet Child o’ Mine, a surprisingly complimentary mix.) A few more beers each, a couple hot dogs, and a great game of trash can jenga later, and we’re ready for the game. Inside the still-young Camden Yards makes your mind wander to the 8th circle of daydream hell: why a new Fenway might not be so bad. Tonight we’re sitting in the 200s, which is the first overhang along the third base line. We have the option of a waitstaff (unused), better
food (used), and shorter beer lines (used and used). I wont continue with the boring details of the game (by far the lamest part of the night) and skip to our 10th inning decision to leave the game and head back to the pregame bars so we can watch the ending of the Celtics at the same time as the end of the Sox. I don’t have to tell you how this one ended. Karma didn’t strike for my lack of good-will reciprocation and within the hour, the bar was chanting "Beat LA." I could have convinced myself that I had stepped through the Lost wormhole and returned to 1984 Boston. These were
followed by some R-rated cheers, a round of Sam Adams pints, and some of the most inspired chest bumps I’ve ever witnessed from white people. And that was my night in Baltimore-upon-Boston. I felt at home in a relatively strange city, stared down karma and didn’t blink, and enjoyed a male on male chest bump a little too much. Pretty memorable night.
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