For Bostonians, Baseball and Fenway Are Reminders of an Idyllic Past

BOSTON--"Safe at home! Safe at home!"

Loud, chaotic, yet inviting, the cheers surround Fenway Park, one of the defining features of this city.

Like a few older stadiums of a dying era, Fenway is deeply woven into the fabric of the community. Just outside of the Back Bay, it provides a glimpse at America's past--and a reminder of a more personal history.

While not every student has participated in high school or Little League baseball, most American students have experienced the familiar ebb and tide of the summer pennant race.

We have been wakened early on a Saturday morning by neighborhood children cheering on their teams in a pick-up game in the cul-de-sac.

We have been captured by stories of Jackie Robinson or Satchel Paige, Fernando Valenzuela or Jim Abbott.

To quote from the quintessential baseball movie "Field of Dreams," baseball has been the one constant through it all.

It links the age of the robber barons to the age of the information technology giants.

Through the years, Americans have always been able to call on baseball--and Bostonians have been able to head to Fenway--for a release.

Last Friday evening at a game against the Tampa Bay Devil Rays, I watched the Red Sox lose 6-2. Between the intermittent rainfall and the less-than-constant Boston offense, the game seemingly offered little to please and even less to remember. But looks were deceptive.

During the seventh inning, before the proverbial stretch, little 6-year-old Mickey came up to me.

He had been seated about ten rows in front of me, but during the top of the seventh Mickey ambled by and looked like he had something to get off of his chest.

"See, I got a real ball," he said triumphantly, proudly displaying his baseball.

"One of the baseball players hit it. I'm going to keep it now," Mickey said.

"Are you going to put it in your bedroom?" I asked.

"Naw," Mickey said, "I think I ought to sell it for two thousand dollars."

Maybe the greed for Mark McGwire's homerun balls had filtered its way down to Mickey.

But as Mickey capitalized on his catch, another spectator remembered baseball's more idyllic past.

Mary Flemming sat to Mickey's left, quietly keeping watch over the game.

She said she dearly hoped the Red Sox would tie together some offense.

"I feel bad because I come to only three or four Red Sox games each year, and darned if they don't lose three-quarters of those games," Flemming said.

"But I keep score religiously, because it reminds me of when I was younger and kept score for my little brother's team," she said.

Her attitude was echoed many times over among the approximately 20,000 fans on hand on the rainy Friday evening.

From the cheap seats in the bleachers to the expensive boxes hugging the infield, it was clear that the Red Sox game was not cellular-phone territory.

On "Family Game" night, the Red Sox offers discount seats to make the game more affordable for families, and children and their older chaperones fill the grandstand and bleacher seats.

Yet the Fenway of today is not the Fenway of past years.

Baseball is nowhere near perfect. One can point to players' high salaries, greedy owners, overpriced stadium seats and the commercialization of many aspects of the game.

One can dismiss new stadiums as gimmicky misrepresentations of stadiums of old.

One can wonder if any role models exist anywhere among today's 30-odd teams.

Yet a trip to Fenway, despite the rain and the enterprising youngsters, satiates the hunger for memory of many Bostonians.

Catch the fever, as Major League Baseball's saying used to go.