Fenway Park
Some things on this earth are just magical. To some it may be the beach at sunset, to others it may be as simple as the drive to work in the morning. For me that place is Fenway Park in Boston Massachusetts.
Going to a game in Fenway is a smorgasbord of delightful feelings. Even the walk up to the ballpark is some thing to behold. Walking with hundreds of passionate fans, all decked out in their red sox T-shirts, jerseys, and of coarse that iconic navy hat with the red B on it. I feel like I belong there with this organized group of strangers. There is such a since of family as I see people from the “T” car I was on and chatted with. A few hundred yards ahead I could hear a “Lets Go Red Sox” chant as people around me began to join in it became more enticing to do so myself. After all this was my team, our team, and this was our year! That was the constant attitude of a Sox fan. Just as the team would look like they were primed to make a push for the World Series they would lose in heartbreaking fashion and mostly to the hands of the damn Yankees.
As me, my uncle, and my dad approach the park down Yawkey Way, the air is filled with a combination of smells. As you pass the sports bars the smell of beer and cigar smoke is thick in the air. As you pass a different vendors the smells of nachos and pretzels tempt you, and finally the smell of ”Fenway Franks” (the ball parks signature hot dogs) hit you like a baseball. I’m not just a sports nut but a food fan too, so I enjoy the aromas as they tempt me. The robust scents of sausage and onions fill the air along with smoke from near by grills. As you walk closer and closer to the stadium you are barraged with people shouting “programs. Get you programs, three dollars out side five inside the park” and scalpers try to sell you “amazing” or “best in the park” tickets.
As we near the gates I begin to shuffle in my pocket for my ticket. As I get it out I notice the cracks and pops between my Nikes and the asphalt.
Going to a game in Fenway is a smorgasbord of delightful feelings. Even the walk up to the ballpark is some thing to behold. Walking with hundreds of passionate fans, all decked out in their red sox T-shirts, jerseys, and of coarse that iconic navy hat with the red B on it. I feel like I belong there with this organized group of strangers. There is such a since of family as I see people from the “T” car I was on and chatted with. A few hundred yards ahead I could hear a “Lets Go Red Sox” chant as people around me began to join in it became more enticing to do so myself. After all this was my team, our team, and this was our year! That was the constant attitude of a Sox fan. Just as the team would look like they were primed to make a push for the World Series they would lose in heartbreaking fashion and mostly to the hands of the damn Yankees.
As me, my uncle, and my dad approach the park down Yawkey Way, the air is filled with a combination of smells. As you pass the sports bars the smell of beer and cigar smoke is thick in the air. As you pass a different vendors the smells of nachos and pretzels tempt you, and finally the smell of ”Fenway Franks” (the ball parks signature hot dogs) hit you like a baseball. I’m not just a sports nut but a food fan too, so I enjoy the aromas as they tempt me. The robust scents of sausage and onions fill the air along with smoke from near by grills. As you walk closer and closer to the stadium you are barraged with people shouting “programs. Get you programs, three dollars out side five inside the park” and scalpers try to sell you “amazing” or “best in the park” tickets.
As we near the gates I begin to shuffle in my pocket for my ticket. As I get it out I notice the cracks and pops between my Nikes and the asphalt.