An Eye For An Eye & A Beer For A Boor: At Fenway Park

“For those of you who have not had the pleasure of experiencing Fenway Park, the place is very intimate in the grand scheme of our nation’s great baseball stadiums. You can literally look around from your seat and point out people of color. And, this is very easy to do at Fenway, since not too many people of color attend Red Sox games. When I was hanging out there, most times I could look around and count myself, besides the baseball players, as the only person of color in attendance. There is much historical speculation as to why this is so. You go ahead and do your own research and get back to me with your theories.” F. Theresa Gillard

Status: Quo Minus

By F. Theresa Gillard

BOSTON Massachusetts—(Weekly Hubris)—7/16/2012—Some of you may remember that I promised to share the story of my truly existential afternoon at Fenway Park. So, here goes . . . .

All of my F. Theresa Escapades start out innocently enough. In this case, my plan was to go to a Boston Red Sox home game in Fenway Park.

I played softball in high school. I love the game. Back in the day, I spent a lot of time at Red Sox games. I generally went alone. None of my friends ever wanted to go (Monique, Jeanine or Joan). Being alone has never stopped me from doing anything (well, almost anything).

Anyways, this time, two of my friends, Mina and Deb, approached me and said they wanted to go to a game. I was like, bet, let’s do it.

For those of you who have not had the pleasure of experiencing Fenway Park, the place is very intimate in the grand scheme of our nation’s great baseball stadiums.

You can literally look around from your seat and point out people of color. And, this is very easy to do at Fenway, since not too many people of color attend Red Sox games.

When I was hanging out there, most times I could look around and count myself, besides the baseball players, as the only person of color in attendance.

There is much historical speculation as to why this is so. You go ahead and do your own research and get back to me with your theories.

Now, I haven’t gone regularly to Red Sox games in quite awhile. I did go one time last season and it appeared status quo to me.

But let’s get back to Mina, Deb & Theresa’s Fantastic Fenway Park Visit. By now, you should know that I’m not a big fan of people in general; especially a random group of people, otherwise known as fans, which we all know is a word derived from “fanatic.”

OK, I admit that I’m not too crazy about the other individuals of my species, either. This is for those of you who don’t recall the inscription on my “Welcome” mat: “Leave.”

So, when I plan to actually immerse myself in people, I have a few tricks. In terms of a Red Sox game, I wait and go in around the second inning. This works out well, because mostly everyone is already seated and somewhat settled. And, I always leave by the eighth inning.

My entrance to this particular game follows these FT rules. I drive in and met Mina and Deb on Yawkey Way, a street bordering Fenway Park. No problem. We got our tickets and proceed to Section 21. They both came with Dunkin’ Donuts.

Our section is directly behind home plate and just one section up from the really great seats. We sit down. I’m in the middle with my friends on either side.

We’re marveling at our good fortune at having such great seats, when we notice/hear directly behind us: hecklers. Lucky us. We’ve got four guys who appear to be college students, heckling any and every player, and they’re right down our necks.

Even though it’s just the second inning, they are perfectly lit and have on board their maximum Fenway-Park-beer-drinker two-beers-per-person limit.

Great, this is one of the “fan horrors” one must endure at such public events. My friends are a little taken aback at the guys’ loudness and choice language, but we exchange looks and decide to enjoy this rare opportunity to get heckler-damaged ear drums while watching a great game.

No problem, I think, as long as they don’t spit or spill. No sooner than this thought acquires form in my grey matter than I find myself drenched in beer. Cheap beer. On/in/over . . . my hair.

Let me take a moment to share a My-People’s-Cultural Fact: you do not mess with a Black woman’s hair.

You simply do NOT.

We take great pride in our hair (OK, to be honest, I don’t really live up to this all the time—just ask my sister, Adrian). Our hair requires hours of prep, pomp and circumstance, not to mention cost . . . and sometimes I just let it slide.

But I’m gonna go ahead and mention cost here because, prior to my Fantastic Fenway Park Visit, my pomp and circumstance comprised a $100, two-hour visit to my hair stylist, Cynthia, at her then-location on Newbury Street in Boston.

I need you to keep in mind that the wait to get in with Cynthia is four weeks plus.

So, there I was, like Carrie, in the movie, drenched in cheap beer. I don’t like beer. I hate the smell of it. Yet there I sat with beer dripping from my hair. Naturally, I turn around to the heckler right behind me.

He looks at me and says, “It was a f***ing accident.”

I’m incredulous. Was this his idea of an apology?

Many of you, knowing me quite well, have already skipped ahead to the usual F.-Theresa-man-handling-modus-operandi. Which, miracle of miracles, doesn’t happen.

During this time period, I’m on this self-therapy kick. My mantra for this particular situation? Thou shalt not kick every idiot’s ass. And, this guy certainly fits the idiot bill par excellence.

Yes, believe it or not, I simply turned back around and sat down.

The Drencher and his heckler buddies are now laughing their drunken heads off. Just yakking it up. I start chanting my mantra silently.

Mina and Deb are shocked that I’ve sat down and that I am somehow remaining seated.

Mina’s on my left saying that I am doing so well with my self-therapy and that I have done the right thing. She says that it just isn’t worth it—whatever it is I was about to do.

Deb says that if I happen to decide that this self-therapy thing is a huge crock, she’s got my back.

I am simmering now, anointed with Fenway Park beer. The head heckler does not show the slightest remorse. Why couldn’t he have just apologized? Without the F-bomb? Why?

I went on like this for a few more innings, drenched and perplexed. Both Mina and Deb kept reminding me of their opposite stances. Mina maintained that my angelic turning of the cheek was just the confirmation that my self-therapy required. Deb asserted that my back was fully covered—no worries.

Epiphany: I decide that the glorious event is staying at Fenway Park; the best self-therapeutically-satisfying option (when beer and hecklers are involved) is staying put (plus a little). Decision made.

Mina sees the look in my eyes. She’s pleading with me to reconsider. I say three words to her and she understands that there’s now no turning back: “Mind made up.”

Deb wants to know how she can help. I ask them both for the melted ice in their drinks, which I combine. I still have only a cup, at most.

The hecklers have paid me no mind at all since The Accident. To them, it’s as though it all never happened.

By now, it’s the bottom of the fifth inning, so the Red Sox are up. Because there is a Fenway Park Security Person sitting in front of us, I figure that I need a distraction. I want to make sure I have enough time to see this thing through to fruition.

Jose Canseco is up at bat. He hits a double and that really gets the fans going, but not enough. I need them on their feet, fully engaged.

Next up, Mo Vaughn, and even though Mo is not one of my favorites, I silently beg him to contribute to my revenge: “Mo, all I need is double, triple—anything along those lines. Please, Mo. Please, please.”

Man, he’s almost at full count! I’m not so sure I’ll get this chance again. The fans’ memento mori is tweaked and ready to blow. Please!

Lo and behold, Mo Vaughn hits a home run. Everyone jumps up. This is so great! Especially for me, as I turn around and throw the liquid I’ve collected right into The Drencher’s face.

I say, a la Paris Hilton, “Oops, f***ing accident!”

It’s his turn to be incredulous. His drunken glee has turned to pure anger. He pushes me. That’s all I remember until they pull me off him.

Evidently, I jumped over the seat and started clocking him.

You see, we should have been even with the water in the face, but he pushed me. It is a very bad idea for a stranger to touch me.

They pull me off him and his friends are looking at me like I’m some crazy asylum escapee. Mina is mortified and Deb is thrilled.

Fenway Park Security has materialized in force. There have to be 20 of them, plus the one who’s been sitting in front of us. The crowd around our section has turned their attention away from the game.

Fenway Park Security are discussing what to do. They don’t really know what to think. They’re looking at me, this 5’3”, short, petite woman (yes, back then, I was considered petite) and they’re looking at The Drencher, an at least 6’1” tall, inebriated man, with attitude.

The Security Person who’d been there all along tells them that I planned it. She says she heard the whole thing.

While all of this is happening around me, I’m focusing on The Drencher because, at any moment, that beer haze is gonna lift enough for him to realize that he just got whipped by a girl.

Due to Miss Busy-Body Security, it’s decided that all four of the hecklers must go, along with me.

The hecklers are indignant. They’re asking why all of them have to go, when only one of them was involved? (Evidently, there’s not much solidarity amongst hecklers.)

But, Security will not budge. The decision is final and we’re all escorted away. With about ten of Fenway Park’s Security surrounding me, I’m ushered out a different way through the stands.

I have no idea where they’re taking me. My aunt and I used to always wonder what they did with all of those crazy people who got into fights at the games. Man, did I have to find out this way?

Some random hecklers heckle me as I am escorted through the stands: “Grow up!” “See ya later!” “That was wicked smart!”

When we reach the inner park walkways, a Boston City cop joins the escort, saying to me, “You know you really should be ashamed of yourself. You’re a disgrace.”

I say, “Listen, Lady, you have no idea what happened. You have no right to condemn me. Keep your insults to yourself.”

Boston City cop says, “I can arrest you!”

I say, “What a revelation. You got any more of those?”

She says, “Get her out of here.”

Thus, I am unceremoniously put out on Yawkey Way.

My first thought is, “Oh, I didn’t get arrested.” My second thought is, “Damn, neither did they!”

Now, I’m sure that, on the other side of the park, probably put out on Lansdowne Street, four very angry hecklers are wondering where I am, too.

I mean, come on. They were having a lovely drunken heckling time. It was a great baseball game. The Red Sox were leading (not that that means much) and they got kicked out before the seventh inning stretch!

Adrenalin-less, I know I need to get to my car quick. I fall in behind two guys discussing the movie, The Cable Guy. I’m practically walking between them.

I figure that if those hecklers find me, these guys will be my buffer—enough for me to make a fast getaway.

They notice how closely I’m walking to them and their conversation gets livelier and a bit louder.

Cable Guy One says, “You know it’s not really like that.”

Cable Guy Two says, “I know. We don’t do stuff like that. We’re serious about our jobs.”

CB1 says, “Yeah, not just anyone can do our job.”

CB2 says, “That’s what I mean.”

I follow them all the way to Simmons College, where I’ve parked. I’m so relieved to be in my car. I high-tail it home.

This was just a bit before everyone had cell phones. When I get home, I have countless messages from Mina and Deb. I’d totally forgotten about them!

The first one is the two of them together on a pay phone, “Hey Theresa! Where are you? They told us that they put you out of the park. OK, we’re going home. Call you then!”

All of the other messages go back and forth between the two of them once they got home.

Deb saying, “Theresa, I had the best time of my life! Before I even knew it, you went over the back of that seat! It was awesome!”

Mina saying, “Now, Theresa, I’m sure you regret doing that but, don’t worry. You’ll recover and be fine.”

I call them to let them know I’ve made it home safely.

The next day, I call my hair stylist, Cynthia: I manage to talk myself into an appointment by recounting the whole story.

Sometimes, I wonder if those four hecklers, especially The Drencher, ever tell anyone our story. I know, in their shoes, I wouldn’t share it.

I just went back to Fenway Park for the first time since my drenching last summer. Luckily, we had a box, so no worries. It was actually pleasant.

Go Red Sox!

“My Final Visit”

Just out to enjoy
the smell, the feel, the—
Hey! Watch it!

Yeah, June inside these
walls open to stars,
sun, and even rain
but, beer? A necessary
ill—like the heckler
that you are. Noticing, I
say, well as long as
there’s no spit or spill.
No sooner said, than
done. I reek of it.
And you say—
only after I ask—
“It was a f***ing accident.”

This I can’t believe.
Anger. No, calm down,
for he knows not what
he does. OK, I can
live with this. This
interesting place of acceptable
ills. Ills? I need to ill on
his ass. How dare he?

This I can’t take
he must—no, I must not
take another disrespect to
heart, where it will fester
and knowingly rot.

Please remember the “to enjoy.”
To enjoy! What a notion.
It’s been abruptly taken
away without sorrow.

This I will leave here
at glorious Fenway Park: what
a unique wonder it is.

My final visit ends with
a white-shirt-escort.

Publisher’s Note: This column by F. Theresa Gillard is a re-run. Sometimes, when a writer hits it out of the park, a replay is called for.