Behind Enemy Lines – Fenway Park

I don't want to spend too much time on this.  Walking into Boston's green stadium decked out in O's gear made me feel as awkward as Steve Urkel walking into a Ku Klux Klan meeting.  My orange and black clashed against everyone else's scarlet shirts.  Sox fans sneered and snorted as they walked past.  The place was packed.  Every street, corridor, and walkway had people streaming through, yet my handful of buddies and I were alone as Orioles fans.  If you want an objective analysis of Fenway, then go elsewhere.  I was a leper in Boston.

I had wanted to get to an O's/Red Sox game all summer because I had been living in Vermont for several months.  Some friends and I were free that weekend and decided to catch a game.  I searched for tickets for a while, and the cheapest we could come up with were $65 a piece.  If you show up to Camden Yards with 65 bucks, you are treated like royalty and seated behind home plate.  If you go to PNC Park with $65, I'm pretty sure they erect a granite statue of you and let you manage the team for the game.  Not so at Fenway Park.  In Boston, 65 bones gets you a 13 inch wide folding chair, 200 rows back in right field that makes your last American Airlines seat seem like a luxurious throne.  So, before the game, I met the ticket guy in a nearby McDonalds.  He had rolls of tickets and cash, a laptop, and some fries tucked away in the corner of the busy restaurant.  I handed him way too much money, he handed me way too crappy of tickets, and I left.

My buddies and I walked into the stadium via Yawkey Way as an orange freak show for the coarse Bostonians.  We entered a corridor that was a century old, it was narrow and uneven.  We were lost, but we wound around towards our seats somehow, well beyond the right field fence, several miles from the Pesky pole.  

 Right away I was struck by how short left field was and how enormous the Green Monster appeared in the outfield.  It was ridiculous, and at the time I commented that from our seats the field looked to be the size of a Little League park rather than a MLB stadium.  It is 302 feet to the Pesky pole, and 310 feet to the Green Monster.  All stadiums built after 1958 are required to have foul lines at least 325 feet.  Sox fans are lucky they have a geezer of a ballpark, otherwise its dimensions would be illegal.

My grade for the stadium is going to be low.  Incredibly expensive parking, absurd ticket prices, cramped seats, laughable dimensions, and the entire complex has the same sickly green color.  Sox fans gush about the unique old-timey beauty of the park.  The hype this place gets is nauseating.  I'll give the park 5 points just because it's historical: 5/15.

As for the food...well we were broke after buying the tickets and didn't eat anything at the park.  I used a water fountain outside of the men's room and had a tart, metallic taste in my mouth from it: 0/5.

Lastly, the fans.  Would you be surprised to hear that Red Sox fans were loud and uncouth, and spoke as though English was a second language behind IFAS, which of course stands for Irish Fetal Alcohol Syndrome?  Of course not.  Prior to the game I was treated with a haughty disdain typical of the historically challenged fan who has blocked out all baseball memories before 2004.  During the game, the local populace seemed perturbed that they were stuck near the only O's fan in the stadium.  I was not overly boisterous, but I did leap up and yell in the second when we ripped a screamer over the Green Monster.  Fans around me growled and told me to sit down.  Not in the haha-we're-fans-of-opposing-teams-so-we're-gonna-rip-on-eachother sort of way, but the I-hate-myself-and-in-order-to-make-my-life-bearable-I-have-to-drag-you-below-me sort of way.

Then, in the bottom of the second, our pitcher had a stroke and forgot how to throw a baseball and gave up the customary seven runs.  This made the Massholes cackle like they were back in middle school giving the nerdy kid a swirly.  I never heard anyone talk about baseball.  They would holler and yell when Boston scored, but besides that people didn't seem very engaged with what was going on.  I wondered if many of them could name every player on the Sox' lineup.  Of course when the headliners came up they would bellow – Fat Papi and Youk made their eyes roll back in their heads and their tongues loll to the side of their mouths.  After the game ended with the embarrassing score of 12-1, my friends and I sheepishly made our way out of the park.  A lady spotted my Ripken jersey and approached me in the first humane act I had experienced while there.  "Sorry we beat you so bad, it's just your team is really horrible."

I didn't think of anything to say besides "thanks", and we exited the old, green stadium.

That one lady earned the Red Sox fans a point: 1/10.

The overall score that Fenway earned in our ballpark ranking: 6/30.  The next lowest score belongs to Citi Field, with a 23/30.  As an Orioles fan, that's my take on the Boston Red Sox experience.  You can call me Shepard Smith, because this right here was Fair and Balanced.

Suck it, Sox.

The Hot Chick: Why I Strongly Dislike the Red Sox

You're at a party.  You're back in college; you're single and ready to mingle.  There's a group of three girls who are giving you some attention.  The conversations have been flirty and each chick has been making eyes at you (yeah, I realize how laughably unreal this scenario is, but let's humor the delusion for a while).  Throughout the night, you've discovered that each girl is from a different east coast city: Boston, Baltimore, and Pittsburgh.  

Quick, which one is the hot one?  Without any more information than their geographic upbringing, construct a mental picture of each girl.  Whose number do you want?  Which one is eh, so-so?  Which one do you stiff-arm and tell "I just remembered my car is illegally parked!"  You know who's who.  The Boston chick is the hot one.  She is smartly dressed in the telltale Burberry scarf tidily draped over her cardigan with Vineyard Vines twill pants.  Her hair is flowing, but still neatly in place.  Despite her prim and proper demeanor, the spark in her eye tells you she's trouble – and you are intrigued all the more. She has a refined air of condescension from those lavish summers spent sailing on the Cape and her semester-long stint of studying Indonesian pottery at an ivy-league institution. She's a looker and she knows it; she is the hot chick.

The Baltimorean is the satisfactory-looking friend.  She's nice, but quiet.  She's cute, but not breathtaking.  Jeans and a sweater get the job done; nothing fancy.  She kind of seems into you, but in the end you don't really click.  She's going to school at Towson, but you had never heard of it.  You try to keep the banter going, but her interest lags and is overwhelmed by the third member of the trifecta.

This third girl is from Pittsburgh, and she's got a half eaten squirrel hanging out of her mouth.  Her attire consists of a Roethlisberger jersey pulled over a hoody, sweatpants that say "Juicy" on the hind-end, and a battered pair of UGG boots.  She's loud and has the self-awareness of an anvil, with looks to match.  She hollers out a challenge; something about drinking you under the table.  Then she scoops you up and snaps a picture and promises to tag you on Facebook... where did that Bostonian trust fund babe get to?

What's the relevance of this scenario to... anything?  Well, tweak the characters slightly.  First, the guy you played in the story is named Adrian Gonzalez.  Instead of college coeds, the three suitors are the baseball teams:  the Boston Red Sox, the Baltimore Orioles, and the Pittsburgh Pirates.  Now it's starting to make sense.  Since 2004 and the advent of the Red Sox Nation, Boston is the hot choice for weak-minded group thinkers everywhere.  Boston's half a decade-long culture of winning has made the Sox an attractive option for players all over MLB.  The Red Sox's current beauty makes the Orioles appear uglier than they really are, and this league-wide perception that the O's perpetually belong with bottom-feeders like the Pirates causes our stock to fall even further.  Baltimore is really not that unpleasant, but our tough division, the enormous checkbooks of our rivals, and our association with ball clubs that haven't been relevant in centuries (sorry, Honus Wagner) overshadows our blossoming youth.  When you think about it, the Orioles are kind of like Anne Hathaway in The Princess Diaries; we just need the coaching of a seasoned leader (Julie Andrews/Buck Showalter) and some time to mature, and eventually we'll be the prettiest girl at the ball (aka make the playoffs).

Alright, all bizarre music videos and chick flicks aside, let me say this clearly: I strongly dislike the Boston Red Sox.  I don't hate them.  'Hate' is a powerful word that I reserve for the likes of al Qaeda, France, PETA, Lucifer, and the Yankees.  My level of disdain for the Sox is instead comparable to my feelings towards black jelly beans, poison ivy, New Jersey, and politicians.  The thorn in my side that is the Red Sox organization has become an infection in recent years, and has spread, leaving me bedridden and feverish the past few weeks.  The recent acquisition of Gold Glove first baseman and slugger, Adrian Gonzalez, along with raking outfield speedster Carl Crawford left the baseball world worried.  The Homeland Security's Threat Advisory Level was raised to Orange as a result of the elevated probability of an attack on the following metropolitan areas: Toronto, New York, Baltimore, and Tampa.

The Red Sox are to baseball what Justin Bieber, Katy Perry, and Miley Cyrus are to the music industry.  They are the flavor-of-the-month, trendy nonsense that the unkempt masses rush to for popularity's sake.   As a child of the 90s, I don't think I saw anyone wear a Boston Red Sox hat until my late high school years.  I never realized that the Red Sox were a popular team.  As an Orioles fan, I never really worried about the Mo Vaughn or Nomar Garciaparra or the rest of the Sox roster.  We were concerned solely with the Yankees.  But now, when I travel back home, the red "B" hats easily outnumber the orange "O's" hats.  Was there a mass migration of Bostonians to the mid-Atlantic region?  Did they finally come to the conclusion that Chesapeake Blue Crab tastes more succulent than New England Lobster?  What else could have been the catalyst which caused so many to find their "Yawkey" way?  Oh, right.  The Red Sox finally won a World Series in 2004.  Welcome back to relevance, it's only been 86 years.

And therein lies the chief source of my contempt for the Red Sox.  This "Nation" of "fans".  This recently coined term "Red Sox Nation" just boils my blood.  Yes, pudding brains will argue that the phrase was first penned in Boston's 1986 World Series flop, but it never stuck or became a part of everyday vernacular until the Sox finally won in 2004.  Since then, fans of role models like Big Papi (steroids), Manny Ramirez (steroids), and Pedro Martinez (cockfighting?) have been sprouting up from Tuscon to Tuscaloosa.  And can these bandwagoners really classified as "fans"?  Or do they love baseball in the same way that Justin Bieber fans appreciate a Portamento*?  Real connoisseurs. 

You know how to distinguish between a real fan who stays loyal through thick and thin and a guy who chooses the fashionable option?  When you ask him what team he likes, pause for a couple extra seconds after he answers.  Then, he'll expose himself.  Not in the Brett-Favre-text-message way, but often times they feel compelled to justify their fanship.  It'll go like this-

You: Hey, nice to meet ya.

"Fan": Nice to meet you too.

You: John said you're from Seattle.  Are you a big Mariners fan?

"Fan": Actually, I'm a Red Sox fan.

PAUSE

"Fan": Yeah, my grandma's second cousin's niece on my dad's side went to college at BU, and I've been a Sox fan ever since.

You: *speechless*

This happens all the time when it comes to Red Sox and Yankees fans.  Every Sox or Yankees fan from Illinois to Idaho gives you some sort of personal back story about why they're a fan.  They don't want to come across as phonies who rejected their childhood hometown teams just when the going got tough.  In order to sleep at night, they dish you a concocted sentence about how they've been a fan since the dawn of time rather than hopping on the "Nation's" wagon after heeding the call to "Cowboy Up".

Besides the manufactured "Red Sox Nation", another snag I have with the Sox is this David-versus-Goliath mentality when it comes to the Yankees spending a gazillion dollars on salaries.  It's hypocritical to dub the Yankees as the Evil Empire and complain about dominating the market when Boston has become an Evil Empire in itself.  As of December 9th, the Red Sox had $594.75 million in salary commitments through 2018.  The Yankees have $613.28 million, just 3% more.  Here's a quote from USA Today to put that money in perspective with the rest of the AL East:

"The Yankees and Red Sox, alone, have 16 players who will earn at least $9 million in salary next season. The rest of the AL East division has just three players with that distinction."

What?!  Talk about disparity.  The only player that the Orioles are paying more than $9 million next year is Nick Markakis, who's worth every penny.  The high-rollers in the East absolutely dominate the rest of the league, allowing the Blue Jays, the Rays, and the Orioles to compete for third in the division.  The Red Sox are like China, the recently relevant bad guy.  America (Orioles) was content with duking it out with our old nemesis, mother Russia (Yankees), but this new threat in China (Red Sox) is just annoying.

So, what does this all tell us?  It says that just because the Red Sox are the sexy option now and that pop culture might think it's really cute to be a part of the "Nation", doesn't mean it's right.  It also says that even though we hang out with ugly chicks like the Pirates fan, doesn't mean that we're one of them.  The Oriole Way is an identity in itself, and as loyal fans we need to cling to our heritage and get some self-respect.  I know it's been 13 years since we've been at .500, but Boston's beauty is fleeting and I can see an orange dawn on the horizon.  Or is that my medication acting up again?  Irregardless, the Red Sox suck and the "Nation" is a lie.  The hot chick has the clap.

*A mild glissando between two notes for an expressive effect.