You may remember my post from a few days ago, in which I mentioned I’d be sitting in Peter King’s seats at Fenway Park for a game.
That game was yesterday. This is my report: What I Did in Peter King’s Seats. I hope you’re grading on the curve today.
And technically, I should probably admit that the game was the day before yesterday. I’m cheating a little, and backdating this post to Wednesday. But don’t jump to any conclusions here. I don’t want you to get the impression that I spent yesterday so exhausted, sick, and justaweebithungover that I couldn’t post.
On the other hand, I don’t have any other impression to give you, so maybe just run with that one. At any rate, here’s how the night went:
“Holy Honus Wagner, we’re in Heaven! This must be where David Wells sits on days he’s not pitching, or competing in pie-eating contests.”
We got to the park a little early, to have a look around the ‘rich people seats’. Lucky thing, too — we got turned around a couple of times on the way to our section, and had to backtrack down a ramp or three. We probably looked even more like we didn’t belong in the nice part of the stadium. Nobody was buying my top hat and monocle, either. Not a good start.
We got to our seats just in time for the top of the first inning. Four hits, two himers, and three runs off David “Porkypants” Wells, and our mood had soured further. The seats, on the other hand, were fairly spectacular. We sat on the fourth level, right above third base. The seats were wide and cushy, the night was clear and warm, and the view was entirely devoid of the pillars, supports, poles, and large sweaty drunken idiots that tend to obstruct the view in the cheap seats.
(You can hold on to ‘large sweaty drunken idiots’ till the end of the story, where I’ll certainly qualify for the honor myself. But as you’ll see, I didn’t obstruct anyone’s view, so I’m forgiven. Mostly.)
Despite the fat fastballs being lobbed out of the park by the visiting team, we thought nothing could ruin our time. The night was young, we’d had a couple of beers on the way over, and we were sitting in Peter King’s Fenway Park box. What could possibly go wrong? As a big honking bonus, the section was fairly empty. Abd then, as though the lord of sacrifice bunts and 6-4-3 double plays was smiling right down on us, a blonde slip of a lass walked over and asked:
‘Can I get you a beer or something?‘
Holy Honus Wagner, we’re in Heaven! This must be where David Wells sits on days he’s not pitching, or competing in pie-eating contests.
(And by the looks of him, he has a few before the game starts, too. Plus a roasted pig, and maybe some nachos.)
Briefly, I wondered what exotic and magical brews might be offered to the elite set of baseball. Could we get a nice porter, maybe one of those smoky West Coast numbers? Something from the Chimay line of Belgians? A locally crafted Dogfish IPA, perhaps? Xingu? Crimson Voodoo? Magic Hat Blind Faith? I was like a kid in a liquor store. A kid in a liquor store with thirty bucks and a fake ID.
I decided not to be greedy, and went with the old standby:
‘I’ll have a Guinness, please.‘
‘Sorry, No Guinness.‘
Strange. This is Boston, after all, second home of the Irish people. St. Patty’s Day lasts a month and a half here. People actually watch soccer, sometimes. And Guinness flows like water at every restaurant, bar, playground and church. This was not a good sign.
‘How about a Sam Adams?‘
Again, it’s Boston. Surely–
‘Nope. No Sam Adams. We have Heineken and Bud Light.‘
Heiny wha? Bud who? Bu… bu… bitches.
Apparently, rich people aren’t nearly so picky about their alcohol as I’d been led to believe. But we — the two of us who can’t afford to be, really — we are. So after the Sox went down quietly in their half of the first, we struck out in search of a decent beer.
We never saw Peter King’s seats again.
We did, however, find a nice enclosed bar on our level. And that bar had Guinness, among other goodies. Also, the bar opened in the back to another section of half-empty seats, directly behind home plate. So we improved our beverage situation, and found a better place to park our asses.
Those seats were phenomenal. And, we found out later, nearly twice as expensive as our original section. You pay for the view — and for the beer selection, apparently. Being directly behind the field, and a few dozen feet overhead, is something special, though. The whole field spread out in front of us, with pitches coming right over the plate below our feet.
And, in Wells’ case, then rocketed back into the field, or over the Green Monster in left. Fatman gave up seven runs in four innings, and the Sox were never really in the game.
Still, we had a great time in the seats we could never afford. We had to retrieve our own beers there — one waiter came over offering Heineken and Bud, and we shooed him away — but it was well worth it for the experience. It was even worth feeling miserable at seven the next morning, with no voice, a pounding head, and a bad case of the sniffles.
But hey — that’s baseball in Boston for you. And it’ll never look quite as good as it did for us in our ‘seats that weren’t Peter King’s, but were close to Peter King’s, and where we could actually get a decent beer’. Now if we could just win a damned game at home, we’ll be getting somewhere.Permalink | 1 Comment