My son called me from Boston yesterday morning. He arrived in town on Thursday night with a group of scholarship kids for a couple days of Beantown crazy. They took in the Blue Man Group on Friday, the Boston Pops last night. Good stuff all around, the best of which came in a phone call, yesterday morning.
He is a restless young man whose sleep is heavy but spare, most likely because he is full of bigger dreams than he can wrap his head around. He wakes up early, and then he commits his feet to lingering steps that rarely have a plan. It’s the only part of his day that reads completely like me, in that improvisation holds sovereign.
So his walk yesterday morning brought him to Fenway Park. And so he calls to ask me if he should take the Fenway Park tour. To which I respond, “Are you on crack? You BETTER take the tour or I’m gonna have to break my promise of never visiting that town again . . just so’s I can kick your ass!” This draws a laugh out of him; a laugh I’m seriously in love with getting. He’s such a serious kid. When I can sneak his laugh out for a walk, I plunder. Because, it’s on my list of greatest sounds ever known.
As for Fenway Paahhk, I may be a Yankees fan but that doesn’t mean I’m fool enough to take for granted one of the greatest living histories known to baseball. And besides, I’ve had a soft spot in my heart for the crib ever since Bucky “Fucking” Dent tucked a Mike Torrez pitch to bed inside the Green Monster back in ’78.
Short story . . wise son took the tour. After which I let him know I would be delivering a band-aid to his bank account this week. Because that’s one of the reasons why he called me in the first place. To chum up some dough for his endeavor. He is such the young Republican, man . . he really is.
The other reason is baseball. Our shared love of the game and the places it has carried us from then to now. We talked about our trip to the house ten years prior, when we watched the Sox take down the Jays on a blistering hot night. It was before the Sox learned how to beat Babe Ruth at his own game. It was before me and mom decided things weren’t going to work. Before all of the now started happening to the here of what we had.
Yesterday morning, the now brought some better. In fact, it brought lots of it. In the form of a phone call from a park we once shared together before times went complicated. I reminded him about the Yankees cap he had lost at the game that night in Fenway, ten years back. “Check out the lost and found,” I told him.
(PS: The above photo was taken by my hero/rock star son. Yeah, you could say I am Boston/Pop proud.)