Savoir-Faire

There's nothing like spending a Tuesday afternoon in Fenway Park watching the Red Sox opener. There's nothing like it, that is, if you have a seat.

But if you were one of the tardy who arrived at the ballpark the other day just in time to see Luis Tiant throw his final warm-up pitch, you quickly realized that your afternoon would not be spent relaxing in the bleachers, nor would you view the game from the comfort of a box seat. No, you would be one of the many disgruntled spectators whose ticket stub read STANDING ROOM.

Thus, while most of the capacity crowd could claim to have witnessed the heralded return of Tony Conigliaro, the American League debut of Henry Aaron, and the stellar pitching of EJ Tiante, your boasts would have to be of a modified variety, as in "I saw the backsides of the row of people in front of me who gave Tony C. a standing ovation. Three had checkered underwear, one spilled popcorn on me when she went to clap and forgot that her left hand was occupied, and one had his back pocket picked by an usher."

A spectator accorded the privilege of standing room status has some advantages, though. He is allowed, for instance, the rare opportunity to witness the game from all angles of Fenway Park, as he is constantly on the move, burning a trail of peanut shells from the left field foul line to the right field grandstand in search of a better place to sitter, stand. In so doing, he no doubt gets more exercise than the players.

If, on the other hand, you were able to find a reasonable place to stand--reasonable implying a place where there was no danger that the guy in front of you was giving our Michelob shampoos or that the lady to your right might mistake our sweater for a napkin--you had to remain there, or forfeit your favored position to the person breathing obscenities down your neck.

After all, you couldn't exactly have someone save your allotment of air, although one person, who had to go to the men's room, did take his shoes off and implanted them firmly in the puddle of beer in which he had been standing for the past three innings. His hope was to reserve and protect his precious space; needless to say, the space was taken and the shoes were stolen.

Final proof that this was not your day would come during the seventh-inning stretch. While everyone else stood up to flex their cramped muscles, you grabbed one of the thirty-four thousand temporarily vacated seats to rest your aching legs, and accidentally crushed a Fenway Frank--mustard and all--in the process.

If you were really lucky, you'd spot someone leaving the game in the eighth and take his seat for the final innings. The seat would be so comfortable that you'd remain there until the final out, and thus become entangled in the mad post-game rush to the exits. And if you managed to escape that jungle with your wallet still intact, you'd then have to contend with the five o'clock rush at the subway station, which ensured but one thing--that your standing-room-only day had just begun.