POSTCARD FROM CAMBRIDGE: Green Monster Blues

Went to Fenway on a gorgeous Wednesday night a couple of weeks ago, watched the Sox drop an ugly game to the Florida Marlins, 4-2. It was only my fourth trip to the park—and my first-ever summer excursion—but already my attendance reads like Dr. Seuss: I’ve been at Fenway in the rain, I’ve gone there on the Green Line train. I’ve been to Fenway with my roommate, I’ve even been there on a date. I’ve seen the Sox win, seen them in a funk. I’ve seen them sober, seen them drunk.

Sadly, I am no closer to understanding the stadium, the team, the fans, or the city. And I’m starting to doubt I’ll ever figure out why the fans root against the Yankees no matter what team the Red Sox are actually playing. And the whole Ray Bourque thing—I have decided not to waste any more precious brain cells on that one.

Let’s start at the beginning: the Yankees. Now, I am a lifelong New Jerseyan and Mets fan, and I dislike the Yankees as much as any healthy American should. But there is simply no need for thousands of people to start chanting “Yankees suck!” when the Red Sox are losing 10-3 in the top of the sixth inning to the Oakland Athletics. Poor A’s—they fly across the entire freaking country to play in legendary Fenway Park, and the Boston fans don’t even acknowledge their presence! Boston fans think New York is the only worthy opponent, which is just not true. The Yankees and their arrogant fans have won more championships than George Steinbrenner can count on his fingers and toes, while the Sox haven’t won any since Ted Williams was in diapers.

I fondly remember Boston’s Roger Clemens going head-to-head with Oakland’s Dave Stewart in the 1990 ALCS (which the A’s won, of course), yet the Sox fans accept no rivalry that is not against New York. Men, women, and children of all ages stand along Yawkey Way before and after every game, hawking bootleg “Yankees suck” T-shirts. A week ago I went to an Allman Brothers concert at the Tweeter Center—a four-hour lovefest of billowing marijuana smoke and pricey hot dogs—and as I headed for the exit, do you know what the aging hippies were chanting? Not “Duane lives!” or “Bring back Dickey!” No, the crowd was yelling “Yankees suck!” Apparently New York had picked up a game in the standings that night.

Some things about Fenway are just a little bit different. Where I come from, an usher is the 80-year-old man named Ernie at the movie theater who takes my ticket and reminds me to donate spare change to cystic fibrosis research. At Shea Stadium, where the Mets have languished under the roar of LaGuardia air traffic since the 1960s, all the ushers are brittle octogenarians dressed up in cute age-appropriate Mets gear—orange bow ties and suspenders. But at Fenway, the ushers double as beefy security guards, always ready to hustle up the bleacher stairs to escort belligerent fans (or vomiting graduates of Bedford High School) out of the stadium.

Obstructed view seating is another puzzler. Some people are fond of citing Fenway Park’s meager 33,000 capacity and saying there are no bad seats. These people are idiots. There are seats in the stadium where there is a giant pole between you and home plate. This is called “obstructed view” seating and is quite bad for anyone who actually intends to watch the game. Yet since you are not actually in the bleachers, Fenway charges higher prices! This is almost as big a rip-off as those tiny cups of beer.

Even the players are weird. Take Carl Everett, for instance. Everett, the former Mets outfielder who is the most prominent non-Hispanic black guy in the whole city of Boston, does not believe in dinosaurs. “The Bible never says anything about dinosaurs,” Everett famously told Sports Illustrated. “You can’t say there were dinosaurs when you never saw them. Someone actually saw Adam and Eve. No one ever saw a Tyrannosaurus rex.” Everett was run out of New York in 1997 when he was charged with child abuse, and last year his temper flared up again during an interleague game against the Mets, when he earned a 10-game suspension for head-butting an umpire. Almost makes you nostalgic for the glory days of Mets-turned-Red Sox pitchers Bret Saberhagen (who sprayed bleach at reporters back in 1993) and David Cone (who allegedly exposed himself to three women while hanging out in the Mets bullpen during a 1989 game).

I have to admit, though, some things about Fenway are growing on me. The bleacher fans are always in good spirits (especially when a Yankee fan gets tossed for bad behavior), and I am starting to appreciate the drunken banter (and ass-grabbing) on the crowded subway ride back to Park Street.

Plus, I really appreciate how the Fenway vendors let you keep the bottle cap when you buy a Coke. (At Shea, they take it from you, ostensibly hoping that you will spill the Coke or drink it faster and have to come back to buy another one.) As I am spending this summer in Cambridge, I plan to come back to Fenway for at least one more game, and maybe—just maybe—I will join in a couple of “Yankees suck!” choruses. Just don't ask me to explain them.

David C. Newman ’03, a Crimson editor, is a government concentrator in Quincy House. The Mets really suck this year.