Seats Fit for a King

March 26, 2006

It turns out, a friend of a friend of mine knows Peter King. That’s right, sports fans, Peter King. Celebrated sportswriter, Sports Illustrated columnist, Inside the NFL talking head, author of web-syndicated Monday Morning Quarterback, coffee nut, and resident New Jersey apologist — THAT Peter King. And through a deliciously twisty and serendipitous set of circumstances, I’ll be sitting in Mr. King’s Fenway box in a couple of weeks, during the Red Sox’ home opening series.

This is all very exciting. I see many of you staring at the screen, thinking ‘Who’s Peter King?‘, and ‘Why should I care about baseball?‘, and ‘What the hell does serendipitous mean?‘

Well, read up, home slice. I’m telling you — this is big news. I’ll try to use smaller words to explain it from here on out.

Of course, Peter King won’t actually be at this game, which is a pity for me. I mean, I do have the guy on my ‘Heroes’ list over there on the right sidebar. And it’s pretty fricking rare that I get a chance to rub elbows with any of those.

I met Jake Johannsen once, between shows one Saturday night at the Comedy Connection in Boston. He was performing. I was giggling and staring at my shoes. Very smooth, I was. The exchange lasted maybe twelve seconds, and our elbows were never in danger of rubbing together, or even touching. He seemed like a really nice guy, but how would I know, really? I’ve had closer encounters with toll booth operators.

That’s the only ‘Hero’ listed I’ve ever met in person. To be fair, not all the ‘Heroes’ are meetable, exactly — three are dead, seven are (or were, for the most part) television shows, one was a ‘comedy troupe’, two are web comic strips, and another’s a muppet.

(This sort of breakdown amongst the entities I most look up to should come as no surprise to anyone who’s been reading carefully to this point. Given my influences and tendencies, I’m frankly surprised myself there aren’t more animated characters on the list. Not to mention more that spent their early years with Jim Henson’s hand up their asses. I’m all grown up now, but I still idolize at a third-grade level.)

Careening back to the point, then.

“You want to drink beer at Fenway, you’d better bring your checkbook, your first-born, and a left nut you don’t mind trading in.”

I’m really getting excited about this game, Peter King in the house or no. It promises to be a great game (against the Blue Jays; what would those dome-dwellers know about playing outside in the cold?), a great time (*cough* *kaff* private bar *cough*), and easily the best seats I’ve been in at Fenway Park.

(Did I mention there’s a private bar? That’s the rumor.

Of course, in Boston ‘private bar’ could well mean a six-pack of Sam Adams in a cubbyhole under the seat, for eight bucks a pop. Still, that’d beat the hell out of freezing your ass off waiting in line for another brew out on the concourse.

Better price, too. You want to drink beer at Fenway, you’d better bring your checkbook, your first-born, and a left nut you don’t mind trading in. It’s a little expensive, is what I’m saying.)

Anyway, it should be fun. And just think, that’s Peter King’s box. Why, just a couple of days later, he could be sitting in the very same seat. Or leaning against the very same gum I might accidentally leave on the armrest. Or reading the ‘Yankees Suck!’ I’ll probably carve into the seat back. Or standing by the empty bar, wondering how the hell a month’s worth of beer could just disappear like that.

Oh, yeah. This game is going to be good. Play ball.