Go Red Sox

When I was growing up, my brothers were avid baseball fans. One was a Yankees fan; the other was a Mets fan. I had to watch both. Since the Yankees were decidedly better, I usually leaned toward them. In fact, my Yankee brother made me memorize the lineup for the 1977–78 Yankees. To this day, I can tell you who played what position. But when the Mets beat the Red Sox in the 1986 World Series, I, of course, leaned toward the Mets.

Fast-forward many years, and I met my husband, Mark, who is a Red Sox fan. On one of our first dates, we went out to dinner, and sitting at the table next to us was Red Sox pitcher Pedro Martinez. I am usually gaga over seeing famous people, and my husband has no idea who anyone is. This time, it was the opposite. Mark was star-struck, and I had no idea who he was talking about.

When our daughter, Anastasia, was born, my brother insisted on buying her Yankee clothes. Mark reluctantly allowed her to wear them for pictures we sent to my brother. During the 2004 Yankees–Red Sox playoff series, our two-year-old daughter would leave messages for her uncle at his work saying, “Who’s your Papi?”

When our son, Thomas, was born, my brother finally accepted that he had lost the war. We were now a Red Sox family.

He did, however, make one last attempt.

We were visiting New York. My daughter, my mother, and I were going to the American Girl store for lunch, while my brother took Thomas to the zoo and around Central Park for the afternoon. It happened to be the day of the All-Star Game, so my brother decided to take his two-year-old nephew to the Yankee store and buy him some Yankee T-shirts.

They picked out a Derek Jeter shirt and brought it to the counter to pay. My brother looked at my son and said, “What do you say?”

He was expecting, “Thank you, Uncle Frank.”

Instead, Thomas looked at him and said, “Go Red Sox,” right there, in the middle of the Yankee store.

Frank was mortified.

When he told Mark the story, Mark was beaming with pride.

As Thomas got older, Mark promised him that they would go to a Red Sox game. But life—and, for Mark and Thomas, golf—got in the way. It was several years before we finally made our way back to Boston for a game.

Originally, Mark and Thomas were going to the game, and Anastasia and I were going to find something else to do. Then I changed my mind.

“Eventually, Anastasia is going to go on dates, and a baseball game is a great date. She should experience it. Get four tickets,” I told Mark.

He did.

A week before the game, our friend Rachel told us she could get tickets. We sold ours and took hers. They were right next to the Red Sox dugout.

The seats were amazing. I did tell Anastasia that when she eventually went on a date at Fenway, the seats she would most likely have would NOT be these.

Thomas took it all in. He sat watching the game, not saying a word.

At one point, Mark and I were talking when Thomas tugged on Mark’s shirt. Mark turned around, and Thomas was holding a baseball. One of the coaches, on his way into the dugout, had handed him a ball.

He hadn’t asked for it. He was just an eleven-year-old kid sitting next to the Red Sox dugout.

Every year, we ask Rachel for Red Sox tickets, just to keep her on her toes. This year, she came through for us again.

Thomas is about to leave for his semester abroad. Anastasia is about to start graduate school in Boston.

As we walked to the stadium, Mark told the kids about the fun he had when he was single and didn’t have any care in the world except, Where am I going to get my next beer, and are the Red Sox going to win?

Now, years later, he’s walking into Fenway with his own family.

And I, the girl who once did everything her big brothers told her, had raised two Red Sox fans.

Our seats were above the Green Monster. Even Rachel couldn’t top the dugout seats, but she got close. From up there, the whole park opened in front of us: the grass, baseball green under the setting sun, and the wall dropping beneath our feet.

We sat watching the game—the players, the fans, all the characters you see at a baseball game. No one was on their phones. No one was rushing anywhere. We were just together.

At one point, I looked over at Mark and Thomas, talking and laughing and sharing a beer at Fenway.

And I thought: This is it.