Get Your Red Hots Here

The difference between a loosing and a winning season for a ball team is apparently not in the number of games won or lost, but in the mountain of hotdogs and peanuts consumed during the season. The number of peanuts gobbled up during an average game must be almost incalculable.

At least it seemed so last Thursday, the opening day for the Red Sox at Fenway Park. As an opener with all the trimmings, the pre-game ceremonies began with a flashy band that marched smartly around the outfield for a while, rayon pants glinting in the sun and chin straps fixed fiercely under chins. Then at a signal, the band marched into seats on the grandstand and governor Christian A. Herter threw out the first ball, at least according to the announcer. No one, I believe, actually saw the Governor in all the crowd. The ball just popped out of somewhere and the cather grabbed it. Overhead a plane flew by with the banner, "Murphy for Governor." Scraps of paper descended in enthusiasm from the upper tiers and the shivering band played "Jingle Bells." No one laughed. There was that something in the air before a great event that stilled even the omnipresent crackling of peanut shells.

Then in a quick, quiet way, the first pitch was thrown and the game began. The tension being lifted, peanut consumption rapidly and audibly returned to its normal briskness.

I was supposed to cover the game, but from the first pitch I didn't see much of it. There were three boys down the row who kept buying peanuts, and someone had to pass the bags down the aisle, collect the money and pass it onto the peanut man.

"Peanuts here!" cried one of the boys, and the seller scurried over. "Three bags please," he demanded leaning over and handing me a dollar. I was in the middle of this transaction when I hear a roar and suddenly everyone was standing. When I struggled up most of the players and the crowd were gazing wistfully over the left field fence, and a player was rounding second base. A pall had settled over the crowd, clearly meaning a homerun by the visitors. Everyone sat down.

"Hey Hotdogs," yelled a lady a few seats away. Hotdogs, a pale boy with two missing front teeth came lounging over. He looked at her unhappily. Every hotdog he sold was clearly a personal a front. The woman, however, paid no attention to his feeling and began ordering a string of hotdogs, and I began passing them along down the row.

The game went on and it got colder and colder. I was sitting in the shade and people around me started to stamp their feet. The field seemed immensely far away and apparently no one paid much attention to what was going on. People talked, shouted, and little boys ran up and won the aisles, and everyone ate. There was a vast dull munching throughout the stadium. In the fourth inning the Red Sox, who were one run behind at this point, staged a rally and with a few hits changed the score completely. The rally drove everyone to the near edge of frenzy; the man behind me spat and snarled with delight.

"This is a great game," he said with some satisfaction. "Peanuts, over here," he yelled motioning a passing boy.