Remembering Why... RAYMOND TATOR I've gotten a little spring fever lately. The weather has been mild in Albany NY. Baseball trades and spring training is in the news. I'm re-reading "At Fenway" by Dan Shaughnessy. All of which is reminding me why I love baseball and trips to Fenway Park, and how I can't wait to get back to the yard this year. Fenway is about a three hour trip from my house-not too long, but a game does take up most of a day, so I don't get to go too often. The last time I went was early last year. Mo Vaughn was making his first visit to Boston as a member of the Angels. I got tickets for the second game of the series. It was a Saturday and the forecast called for rain. My younger brother joined me for the trip; he's a Yankee fan. When I think of this I'm reminded of those studies we learned about in college that experimented with the nature versus nurture debate. Scientists would take twins who had grown up in the same environment and observe how they are alike and how they are different. My brother and I both received love from our parents, we grew up in the same neighborhood, but somehow he managed to follow the dreaded Yankees, and I, the heroic Red Sox. I think my brother and I have an unusual relationship when it comes to the rivalry. We don't hate the other side. We don't take the teams too seriously. We are kind of like announcers; we root for our team, but we can appreciate it when the opposing team does something cool. We make fun of the bone headed plays on ether side. We rag each other a little, but it's all in good humor. We like to quote baseball movies whenever possible (Bull Durham is our favorite) and we have a good time. Perhaps the beer helps. We began the trip with a breakfast beer at eight in the morning (it's just a tradition) and later left for Boston in my brother's truck (which has since been repossessed). Along the way, we talked about the status of our relationships, funny things we have done in the past, and the weather. It was already getting dark, and by the time we hit the Massachusetts Turnpike, it was pouring. We followed the funny pilgrim hats that mark the turnpike and headed for Boston anyway. What else were we going to do? We had already gotten away from my wife and my brother's girlfriend for the day. At worst, we could hang out in a Red Sox bar and soak up the atmosphere (My brother does a hilarious imitation of a Sox fan voicing his opinion as to why Garciaparra is a better ballplayer than Jeter, which is the type of conversation we both love in sports bars). Luckily, the sky cleared up and the game was on; we even got a little sun. I have a rule. I refuse to pay for the parking around Fenway. I explained this to my brother as we passed Fenway and kept driving until I got to "my spot." I guess if a person was with a few friends, the $20 wouldn't be a big deal; however, I usually go to the games alone, and that money can be put to much better use. That day we put it to use in the brewery across the street from the Fenway ticket office. I always forget the name, but it's the one that has the bathroom that looks like a tool box and the various brews comes in large glasses. We parked about a mile or so away from the park and began walking. Along the way we took note of the potential pubs and shops we could visit on the way back from the game while we waited for the traffic to thin out. It started to get exciting as we neared the park, and we could smell the sausage and peppers and onions. I've always had to buy one of those. Fans and vendors filled the streets. It felt like baseball. We had a beer at the brew pub and then went inside the park to watch batting practice. The game was about to begin. We had our $4 beers, our free, really lame poster they gave us as we entered (which seems to be made of a wonderful material for paper airplanes). We had our seats way out in the right field bleachers, and we were now ready to watch the game. This was my brother's first time at Fenway; he was excited and checked everything out. We asked the people around us who was going to be on the hill. There weren't a lot of fans sitting near us at the start of the game, but those who were there did not know who was pitching for the Sox. It turned out to be the debut of Juan Pena, and I thought the Sox might be in trouble; however, it turned out to be a good game for Pena and he got the win (I'm looking forward to seeing how he does this year). Mo received a mixed reaction, but it was mostly positive (I cheered him and then yelled, "now strike him out!"). He didn't do well at the plate, much to my delight. I've always liked Mo, but he was an Angel now, so I was glad he stunk up the joint. The thing I'll always remember about the game happened in the eighth and ninth innings. My favorite part about going to Fenway for the games, instead of watching them on television, was my fellow fans. It's also my least favorite part. For most of the game we had a couple of rows to ourselves and we could stretch out, relax, and talk baseball amongst ourselves, but in the eighth inning a bachelor party came in and filled up the empty space with a loud, obnoxious, drunken effort. We soon found out they just left a bar before they realized they had tickets to the game. They started smoking (not just cigarettes) and drank some more. They weren't too annoying, but many people did not like it at all, even in the upper bleachers where it seems almost anything goes. Fans told security about the smoking, but it did nothing to curb their behavior. I don't think security cared too much because it was late in the game and there were so many of them breaking the rules. The funny thing I'll always remember was this one guy they kept sending off for beer. He came up the aisle with the beer, and they'd yell, "Hey, it's Fat Nate with skinny arms!" over and over. My brother and I laughed hard and long. Another guy in the party then asked us whose the Angel's right fielder? I knew who it was, but had no intention of telling him because I knew what was coming. However, not knowing the fielder's name did not deter him in the least; he simply howled at the generic, Angel's outfielder, telling him he was terrible in a loud, slurred voice, which the fan, and his friends, thought was very funny. It was nothing original, but I imagine that was all he could come up with under the circumstances. As the game ended, the Red Sox victorious, our little Royal Rooters left in search of more beer. It was then we felt our first raindrop. Boston waited to pour until we got back in the truck. It was a great day.