9.17.2004
O R T I Z Z L E
back from my penultimate red sox game of the year.
before that: saw james brown, flanked on either side by smug suited-and-sandal'd undergraduates, overseeing a monster truck demolition jam at the harvard lampoon. this place is on some serious next shit.
even earlier: finally read a copy of T.J. Clark's eulogy for Rogin, one of the most influential teachers-slash-thinkers-slash-friends I've ever shared time with. it was very good.
all things considered, an interesting day.
sitting in the stands with mcguirk an hour before the first pitch. it's one of those ugly, grey new england days right on the cusp of autumn. we're about thirty rows up and the hapless devil rays are taking batting practice; the few fans milling about on the green monster cheer when one of the rays finally hits one out. "there he is!" mike, whose name I have forgotten, is coming down the aisle and pointing. he has clearly forgotten my name too, but since this is a modest friendship founded on the true, warm chatter shared during five games a year, we shake hands, reintroduce ourselves, make sure the other person has been "doing well" since that Dodger game in June and gush that this "could be the year." mike helps his son with some ice cream, served in a small plastic red sox batting helmet. joe points to our left: "you see that red seat?" the red seat is the lone bleacher seat painted red and it marks the farthest home run ever hit by anyone at fenway park, a 502-foot blast off the bat of ted williams in 1946. "yeah, it's crazy." "totally crazy. david ortiz looked at it, laughed and said, 'no fucking way anyone will ever do that again.' just crazy." "I love ortiz. he's really come into his own since coming to the sox...it seems as though he truly loves playing here, with these guys." "I've been trying to get people to say 'Ortizzle.' Fa shizzle, Ortizzle. It really hasn't caught on." the sky finally surrendered to its own ominous suggestions, and it began to drizzle. the clouds over the third base side of the park parted, the sun pierced through and it started to rain. sky was grey except for yellow-orange glow over on the third base side, the colors swaying and mixing like schlieren. the rain-fey, tenatative, harmless-sent Mike and his boy to the grandstands. hugged my scorebook under my jacket and thought about how much of my life I might spend waiting for something magical to happen.
before that: saw james brown, flanked on either side by smug suited-and-sandal'd undergraduates, overseeing a monster truck demolition jam at the harvard lampoon. this place is on some serious next shit.
even earlier: finally read a copy of T.J. Clark's eulogy for Rogin, one of the most influential teachers-slash-thinkers-slash-friends I've ever shared time with. it was very good.
all things considered, an interesting day.
sitting in the stands with mcguirk an hour before the first pitch. it's one of those ugly, grey new england days right on the cusp of autumn. we're about thirty rows up and the hapless devil rays are taking batting practice; the few fans milling about on the green monster cheer when one of the rays finally hits one out. "there he is!" mike, whose name I have forgotten, is coming down the aisle and pointing. he has clearly forgotten my name too, but since this is a modest friendship founded on the true, warm chatter shared during five games a year, we shake hands, reintroduce ourselves, make sure the other person has been "doing well" since that Dodger game in June and gush that this "could be the year." mike helps his son with some ice cream, served in a small plastic red sox batting helmet. joe points to our left: "you see that red seat?" the red seat is the lone bleacher seat painted red and it marks the farthest home run ever hit by anyone at fenway park, a 502-foot blast off the bat of ted williams in 1946. "yeah, it's crazy." "totally crazy. david ortiz looked at it, laughed and said, 'no fucking way anyone will ever do that again.' just crazy." "I love ortiz. he's really come into his own since coming to the sox...it seems as though he truly loves playing here, with these guys." "I've been trying to get people to say 'Ortizzle.' Fa shizzle, Ortizzle. It really hasn't caught on." the sky finally surrendered to its own ominous suggestions, and it began to drizzle. the clouds over the third base side of the park parted, the sun pierced through and it started to rain. sky was grey except for yellow-orange glow over on the third base side, the colors swaying and mixing like schlieren. the rain-fey, tenatative, harmless-sent Mike and his boy to the grandstands. hugged my scorebook under my jacket and thought about how much of my life I might spend waiting for something magical to happen.
