I went to my first Red Sox game of the season last night. We lost, but it was a great game, and it felt awesome to be back at Fenway. A little while ago, I went to see my doctor about a charming and attractive stress-related rash and panic attack problem, and she said, whilst writing out various prescriptions for creams, tranquilizers and dart guns, “Do you do any meditation? Sometimes it’s good to think about your happy place, and take deep breaths. Do you have a happy place? Somewhere you’re always OK? The beach? The mountains?”
I said immediately, “Fenway.”
So I spent last night in my happy place, clutching a beer like a liferaft and yelling “TRAAAAW-DAHHH!” Which, if you’re not from Boston, is how Trot Nixon’s name is actually pronounced.
My all time favorite incident of the evening though happened when my pal Kara and I went out for a smoke. They make you run around the whole dang building now to do this. Soon you’ll have to sit in the dumpster. But anyway. We found the smoker’s pen and stood hunched with the other rejects. Everyone was quite friendly, as usual. Except for one guy, who kept looking nervously from side to side, as though waiting for ambush.
“Hey, pal,” I said. “Is everything OK?”
“Oh, yeah. Yeah, fine.”
“You having a good time?”
“Oh yeah. Yeah.” Shift, shift. “Um, I’m a Yankees fan.”
I have to admit, when I heard this, I feared the worst. Had someone pantsed him at his seat? Poured beer on his head? Lit his SUV on fire? We don’t need any more bad press around here. Please, lord, I prayed. Let the Massholes stay in check.
But no need to worry. Everyone had been nice to him. And he was all excited, because it was his first time at Fenway. And everyone loves Fenway. Fenway is the friend of a friend that everyone gets along with.
“Well, I’m glad people have been OK,” I told him. “And hey, there’s a possibility that I might be moving to your city sometime soon. So I’ll make you a deal: I’ll make the citizenry of Boston treat you well, if you’ll tell your pals in New York not to kill me.”