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Sausage Guy Saves Baseball (and a love story)

The problem with writing about the sausage guy is I’m not sure what type of story it is. It falls somewhere between a sports story and a love story. I have begun it several times. Once for my book. Once for my blog. But I always stop. So I am writing today about the sausage guy, and I will let my readers decide what kind of story it is.

 Baseball has always been the love of my life. I have been compared to Annie Savoy in the past, which I take as the highest complaint one can give. Although, there has always been one significant difference between Annie and me. Crash Davis. When given a choice between baseball and men, I have always chosen baseball. If that means going on a date with someone to see a game, or not going on a date with someone to watch a game, it has always been about the game, not the man. Not many people understand this about me. I call Fenway, my church, but mostly people call me selfish. Imagine telling a good Catholic, it is selfish of them to go to Mass rather than lunch with you.  Games are my Mass, my everything, and this is what makes this story a love story.

And here is what you need to know about the sports story. All season, Fenway has been breaking my heart. You know the sad songs you play after a break-up? Fenway has been playing that song all season. And the fans have been screaming the chorus at the top of their lungs. It’s just the sad love song is Sweet Caroline. Maybe it’s the cheap tickets; maybe it’s the lack of heart on this team (not you Ortiz, you are still the man). But this year fans have been more horrifying than Valentines choice to take out Miller at the Red Sox Yankees game on Friday. Our fans cheer for high E.R.A.s for our pitchers. They drink two beers two quickly and don’t wait for an inning change to get their next round, possibly blocking your view of the one good Atchison inning. And then they leave right after their favorite part, Sweet Caroline. As if it wasn’t enough to get heartbroken by the players, now the fans are making it impossible to get put back together.

Despite all of this, I keep going. Like any churchgoer, I’m compelled by a higher power, not just Gonzo’s hitting power.

My boyfriend, who understands the baseball lover in me, not just abstractly, but fully, secured tickets for the Red Sox Yankee battle long ago.  To me this exceeds diamonds. Red Sox Yankees tickets the week of July Fourth. I treated him to pregame tacos before the game. Even with Beckett pitching we made sure to be prompt, as we heard the Navy Seals would be landing on Fenway, and he also had to get a magazine to keep score. Finally met my match.

Lansdowne is always distracting before a game. Now add Fleet week, parachutes in the sky, and a girlfriend who needs to see everything at the game, and also has a habit of losing things. So he wasn’t thinking about someone stealing his ticket as he placed it in his back pocket. He was thinking about getting a scorecard and getting inside the Park as soon as possible so his girlfriend won’t be pissed.

As security checked my purse and gave me the go ahead, I heard him yell. In all the excitement I hadn’t waited for my boyfriend. He was telling me he didn’t have his ticket. So I abruptly backed out of line, despite my bizarre need to see the Navy Seals land in Fenway. I figured it would be an easy fix. The amount of times I found my ticket in a secret purse pocket or tucked inside my media guide.

“I think someone snatched my ticket from my back pocket.”

In my teacher voice I assured him it was probably just misplaced, forgetting how little places men have to misplace things. He looked everywhere twice, and then I looked all the same places twice. We emptied my purse even though he is too smart to give me his ticket given my track record.

The Navy Seals landed.

            “You go in. I’ll figure this out. I’ll go ask the guys at the box office.”

            But I didn’t. Instead I asked a cop who told me to ask the box office.

            Then I asked the guy selling programs, he told me to ask a cop.

            I searched the ground, as if it might emerge from a crack in the concrete. The first pitch was thrown. My boyfriend sat on the curb, defeated. Even more defeated than after the Pats lost. The kind of defeat that eliminates any common sense. Defeat that blocks airways. Just go in, I’m an idiot, he kept saying.

            That’s when I noticed the girl with the sausage guy. She was holding out two tickets. I ran away from my boyfriend and towards the two illuminating tickets.

            “Are you selling those?” I asked in disbelief.

            She looked to the sausage guy to answer.

            “Yeah, but they are pricey. My seats, great seats,” he said.

            “Crap. Do you know if anyone else is selling? Or could I just buy one of the pair? Someone jacked my boyfriends’ ticket from his back pocket. He’s over there,”

I said and pointed to my boyfriend.

            “Are you kidding me? What a scumbag! Who steals tickets!”

            “I know. And my boyfriend has been talking about taking me to this game for ages. He feels awful. We talked to everyone too, and looked everywhere.”

            “Alright, Hun. That’s awful. Let me give you a deal,” he said and showed me his tickets.

$130 dollars apiece, six rows behind the visitors dug out. Seats where people either have Cartier bling or sold their kidneys for the seats.

            “Because of that story, I want to help you guys out. That’s such an awful thing to happen. I’ll sell you the two of them for $160.”

            “Yes! Wait, I need-”

            “ATM is right up there,” the girl told me.

            “Okay, I’ll be right back.”

            “Put those tickets away, don’t want anyone trying to buy them now,” he said to her.

            My boyfriend still sits defeated and clueless to my whereabouts. Looks like he let in a grand slam to lose a playoff game.

            I come back from the ATM and hand the sausage guy eight twenties

            “Thank you so much! He has no idea. I better go over and tell him!”

            “No, let’s surprise him. Tell me his name, and I’ll call him over. He’s gonna be so excited. This is great.”

Finally, another Sox fan that wants a happy ending. After months of fans demoralizing my church, a Fenway fan sings a happy tune of inspiration.

I whisper my boyfriends’ name, which the sausage guy then shouts.

            “Get over here. Your girlfriends got something to tell you!”

            My boyfriend sulks over, probably thinking I am trying to distract him with a sausage the way he distracts my misery with chocolate.

            “So I got us tickets. And we have a pretty big seat upgrade,” I say and show him our new seats, “don’t worry, we got a deal.”

            “Couldn’t believe that story. What a jerk! So yeah, gave you guys a discount. Usually sell these for double the face value. Not today. All worth it too, to see your faces change!”

            “Oh, here. Take our one ticket, maybe you guys can sell it. And if a scalper has the other of the pair, let me know what he looks like,” I say.

            “Oh, he’ll look different after I talk to him! We’ll take the ticket, but come by after the game, if I do get some money for it, want to give it back to you guys.”

            My boyfriend and I head into the Park. Beckett has already let in 5 runs. It’s still the first inning.

            “Good news is you can still do the scorecard,” I say as we sit down in the most glorious seats we will ever sit in.

            “Yeah you’re right,” he says and puts his arm around me.

            “You know what the best part of all of this is?” he asks.

            “I get to watch the game with the teacher who saved baseball,” he says.

            “No, I didn’t save baseball. Tonight the sausage guy saved baseball.”

 

 

Game Seven Terrors

Woke up this morning terrified. We lost game seven. Luongo finally cleaned it up. I turned my phone alarm off and rolled back in bed. Surely, my boss would understand if I was a little bit late. After all, one of the core values of our school is compassion. As I heard the swift movements of my housemates getting ready to work, I realized it must have been a dream.  No one can move that fast after such a catastrophic end to hockey season. Game seven is yet to happen.

Quickly, I threw on my black and gold (more yellow in actuality), brushed my teeth, and ran out the door. I put on 98.5 hoping the rest of the world would be as jazzed as myself.

Lebron, Lebron, Lebron. Really? I’m up with Game Seven Terrors, and the people of Boston are talking about Lebron? Yawn! I need to hear hockey. I need someone to calm me down or pump me up. But I don not need my mind filled up with Lebron trash. Then it happens.

The montage of the whole Bruins season. Start to finish. The music as dramatic as it was in my dream, but a bit more uplifting. They have audio clips of the Sequin trade, the seventh game victory over the Habs, Horton’s hit, Bobby Orr holding a number 18 flag, saves from Thomas, Luogongo being taken out, and fans chanting “WE WANT A CUP!”.

Before I know it I have to take my fogged over sunglasses off. I am in tears. I look to my right at the traffic light and see a bus full of students from my school. And I realize no stories, no communication tips, nothing can teach them the importance of a Game Seven. Especially, after thirty-nine empty years.

 

The Big Bad Bruins Bug

The Bruins virus is spreading. The Bruins epidemic has affected almost all in Boston it seems. Coming into my house yesterday I realized all of my housemates were dressed from toe to head in black and gold.  Teachers, who used to ask “who” when I mentioned a Bruin, are now writing tales from the games in their morning messages. My students are now using names like Ricky O’Ree and Bobby Orr with confidence.  Last night I had a table of over ten watching the Bruins with me. It used to just be me, and one other friend. But like I said, the Bruins epidemic is spreading. And if it hasn’t hit you, wait for it. Think about the last time the Red Sox and Yankees have been playing each other, and no one spoke of it. Not out of shame or fear, just because they didn’t care much. More important things to do.

 People were saying this Bruins team was similar to the 2004 Red Sox team, in a desperate attempt to allow themselves to feel still focused on baseball in this hockey fueled time. But that’s not what it looks like to me. The Bruins don’t look like idiots. They look like the Big Bad Bruins again. The Bruins remind me of the Bruins in 1970. Well, I wasn’t alive, but they are how I imagine the 1970 team to be. There was a quick flash on the TV screen. WIN IT FOR HORTON. With Bobby Orr holding up a Horton flag, it was impossible to not think about the statue of him in front of the Garden. To think of the Big Bad Bruins trying with all of their might to win it for Green. So if you haven’t caught the Bruins Bug, catch it quick, it’s far from idiotic. They build statues about these moments, so people like me can look at the statue and pretend to have known what it felt like to be alive for it. I’m done dreaming of sheep, I’m dreaming of cups.

 

Heaven

Last night I thought I had died and gone to heaven. There I was at a CELTICS playoff game as the top seed. The Bruins were still alive. Ortiz was out of his slump. Hell, the weather was even nice. Seven rows in front of me sat Coco. Also at the game were John Henry, Ortiz, Cora, Youk, Lowell, and Pedroia.

Yes, this was heaven.

The Celtics didn’t let me down either. I remembered last year where the whole crowd only watched Sox players watching the game. But this year it’s a different story. There were fireworks in the garden to introduce the players. It was smoky the entire first half, but the adrenaline of the garden was too high for my asthma to kick.

Then at half time, like any good Boston sports fan I panicked. I think you’ll all agree with me on this panic attack, though. They had Lucky the mascot dunk over Ortiz. Ortiz is there holding up a basketball, and scrawny drunk looking Lucky is running towards the trampoline.

All I could think was, what if Lucky doesn’t jump high enough.

What if this is what puts Papi on the DL list for the season. The crowd was cheering wildly as I held my breath, waiting for Papis agent to interfere. I was half expecting Francona to come in and stop it. But Lucky was too quick for any interference. And thank God, the man is more athletic than he looks. He went way over Ortiz. And I, well, I went straight back to heaven.

Some sunshine needed in Boston...

It’s been a bad week with the sky acting like how I feel everyday. Today in rainy still cold Boston I suddenly had a revelation. It’s baseball season. We are still the champions. So I walked into a bar and sat down happily with my Sunday sports page to read during commercials.

I sat down with my Guinness to warm my body and watched. Beckett was pitching what could possibly go wrong…

Oh right. Everything. Now I remember the good old days of being a Sox fan, when trainwrecks were a weekly occurrence. We can blame Lugo as much as we want, but it’s deeper than that. No one on our team is playing to his normal standards. Jet lag, jet smag. We need to pick it up. And soon.

We have opening day this Tuesday, and Boston is dreary enough right now without a bunch of disappointed drunk fans wandering the streets. I will be at the game on Saturday, and we don’t need an angry me trying to brawl Yankees fans, I’m actually a lot smaller then I think. Also we have twenty games in twenty days, so we really need to build some momentum.

My godmother and I will be selling “I love New York” shirts, with some puffy paint written below it before the game on Saturday. You know how expensive hot dogs and beer are at Fenway, so feel free to buy one!  Just think the more beer my godmother and I can afford the more likely every Yankees fan will be harassed. Puffy paint has never been so wicked!

Once Again, Yankee Fans Prove to have No Heart

Years from now when I am gray and wise, my grandchildren will be sitting by my side watching the Red Sox, and they will ask, “Nana, where were you when Manny Ramirez hit his first walk-off home run?”

I will respond with either one of these two responses, the first one is, “I was in Fenway Park sweetie, greatest moment of my life, well besides marrying your grandfather of course”(which in this daydream also happens at Fenway).

Or I will tell the truth. I was on a train from Grand Central, surrounded by their great aunt and uncle. I left the pub at the top of the ninth inning. I was trying to be polite to cousins I hadn’t seen in a year, and ended up making a terrible mistake.

I got to see the conclusion of the attack of the flies’ game. But not the walk off. Fricken Yankee fans. One told me last night, “it’s all over for us, we can’t come back now,” as he sulked back down in his seat on realizing I was a Sox fan.

I told him they could still come back. I mean look at the Sox, we’ve done the come back kid thing before, and so can the Yankees. I know it seems absurd, me saying these things about the enemy, but I guess that little immature fan in me wants to see us beat the Yankees with our own hand.

“But we have no heart,” he replied. “The Red Sox have heart. The Yankees just have money. It’s all over,” he swigged his drink and I looked at his eyes to see a look I often have. A look of complete defeat.

I wished him luck and returned to my table of Yankee fans. The table of cousins who are supposed to love me dearly. The cousins who excitedly awaited my arrival back to the U.S.A.

Or, as I look at it now, the table of heartless cousins who prevented me from having a great story to tell my future grandchildren, about Manny’s incredibly wicked awesome first walk off homer.

So now I sit, looking slightly defeated myself. Watching the replay of the homer over and over again on my computer, wearing my Yankees Go Home t-shirt.

Is the Glass of Barium Half Full?

Canada? Is this for real? I hope the rest of Red Sox Nation is well in bed by now. This is nothing for the faint hearted.

I had to pints of barium for breakfast today (since being back on American soil my stomach has been acting up), and let me tell you, it was way less nauseating then watching my boys lose to a bunch of Canadians. I fell asleep last night to the sounds of calls from New York.

Do I honestly have to start screening my Canadian family members now? There has been a cop car outside my apartment all night; I think the Boston PD can sense the tension coming from over here.

Tomorrow I am having scrambled eggs mixed with radium for breakfast, as if I could even make this stuff up. I don’t care how sick it makes me, or if I glow green, as long as Canada doesn’t make us look like little league again I’ll be just fine.

Systemic Reaction to Yankee Allergy

This is the message I received last night from my godmother at midnight.

“Hi Carolyn. Almost committed suicide last night, was back in civilization to see the game, almost cut my wrists while watching it. I can’t imagine having to watch that game on prednisone; I would have hurled myself of some sort of building. Thank God we won tonight.”

This always seems to happen. Big games coincide with big illness. Friday night I had to ask myself do I take benendryl and risk passing out before the game ends, or do I endure swollen eyes and iffy breathing to cheer on my boys. I went with the second choice, which did in fact make me want to hurl myself off some building. Living on the fifth floor I decided this would only result in me becoming paralyzed, which might get me better seats at Fenway, but would leave me sedated for the rest of the season.

Last night I choose to ignore my swelling eyes and closing throat once more. I felt a beer from my Red Sox pint glass would simmer down my health enough. And another beer may calm the nerves. No thoughts of jumping off buildings. My mother even sat down to watch the game with me. We could hear Fenway scream a second before we saw it play out on the TV.

Becket, Cy Young, anyone? Johnny Damon , a real idiot, he doesn’t even know how many games behind his team is. Coco sort of my hero. I love seeing our team run, it makes all of the difference. Ellsbury, that just sends me into lovely daydreams. The Fox announcers kept calling him the next Johnny Damon last night. How dare they? Ellsbury is above and beyond that clean-cut idiot. Just watch him run. The kid can even count!

I’m still in my bathrobe, hung-over from beer, prednisone, and Sox adrenaline. I know the Pats are playing at the same time as the Sox. After living in Cali for a few years I got quite a few texts of harassment once midnight hit. Do I wear my Yankees Sucks hat, my Red Sox hat, or my Pats hat? I think we all know the answer to that, sorry Belichick.

Let’s just hope tonight doesn’t end by a deathly systemic reaction or a jump of the Pru!

Ortiz and the longball

I will not write about the game I just came back from, aside to say it was... disappointing. Check the box scores yourself if you want to see the damage.

However, I will talk about batting practice.

Ortiz was tremendous. Between smiling and tossing balls to screaming fans that traveled more than 400 miles to see the Sox play in Baltimore, he beaned two and three home runs in a row.

And a lot of these weren't home runs of the "just over the wall" variety. A lot of them went deep. Outfielders would need a jet pack and a butterfly net to catch them.

While practice pitches are lobbed, and intended for good, hard whacks, it's good to see Papi hitting home runs again. He's only hit 28 home runs this year, compared to his 54 last year.

He can't be bashed for this years low numbers. He's been playing through injury, but what these pre-game dingers tell me is that he's feeling better, up to par.

It looks like Ortiz will be at or close to full power in October. And that's when we need him.

Heartbreak at Homecoming

Trying to read the sports page this morning I had to stop myself. I don’t want to remember the awfulness of last night. The way Schilling seemed to play in slow motion, well except for his unreal bare hand catch. The way JD Drew did nothing to suppress the Nancy taunting in the crowds. And the last homeruns. Declarmen has always made me nervous. But Okajima? My first time seeing him pitch after hearing a year of hype. I know, it’s hard for these Japanese guys because of the long season, but when I’m at Fenway Park do I really care?

Nick Hornby says watching sports as a fan isn’t entertainment. He’s dead on. I was horrified, I was ecstatic (Variteks homer which I asked for as he came to the plate), I felt my arrhythmia acting up, there is really just no time for entertainment,

All the people around us in the stands left between the seventh and eighth inning. Even the two guys behind me who were constantly getting into huge fights about obscure stats left at the beginning of the ninth.

I looked at my father who looked cold, worn out, slightly heart broken, and informed him if there was extra innings I was staying for all of them.

I gulped my Smithwicks and silently said every prayer I could remember. It would all be ok, our best hitters were up. Even without Manny we could do this.

Ellsbury flies out. Ortiz grounds out. Lowell fouls out. My heart out.

“It’s just a game my father,” my father said.
But I kept seeing millions of other defeats flashing before me.

All right Red Sox, let’s really start playing. And Manny, please come back. Make me happy Ireland wouldn’t extend my visa. Make me proud to be American. For fecks sake, I even sang the anthem last night.