I've explained how to get into a playoff game. So what was it like? Amazing.
I exited the Kenmore Square Station at dusk. Already, the area was buzzing with excitement; the Red Sox staved off elimination two nights earlier in Cleveland, still trailing the Indians 3-2 as they returned to the friendly confines of Fenway Park. Before checking out the activity at Fenway, I needed to scout out the Boston University Bookstore, site of the my alumni event the next afternoon.
Before walking down Brookline to Fenway, I needed something to eat: I had left Grinnell early that morning and hadn't had a real meal since arriving in Boston that afternoon. I picked up "dinner" -- a Snickers bar and Reese's Pieces" at 7-Eleven -- before standing in the shadows cast by the bright lights of Fenway.
There are people who lament the decline of religion in American society. I think their concerns are misguided, as religion is alive and well. Instead of worshipping the triune God of Christianity, they participate in relious rites at cathedrals of sport. Here, at the corner of Brookline Avenue and Yawkey Way, thousands of faithful had flocked to worship together.
Two hours before the call to worship, the streets surrounding Fenway Cathedral were awash in people dressed in the temple vestments - jerseys, sweatshirts, t-shirts, hats. The few cars that braved these streets crawled at a pedestrian pace. Some passed out tracts - scorecards, tabloids previewing the service, "K" posters to track strikeouts. Though this church frowned on the practice, some in the fold were willing to sell their seats to the service. Storefront churches surrounding the Fenway Cathedral had lines stretching longer than a basepath offering parishoners the sacraments once they entered: fried food, beer, and 100 televisions broadcasting the service. Already, Fenway Cathedral had begun playing the prelude to the service: Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band.
I saw a line of people waiting to enter Fenway at Gate E. I asked one if they were waiting to enter.
"No," one replied. "We're waiting to buy tickets."
"I thought this game was sold out."
This Cathedral sells a some tickets to the faithful the day of the game. "I got here at 11 a.m. The people at the front of the line arrived last night."
I had my chance to worship -- during high holy days, the playoffs -- in one of the great cathedral in all of Sport. I found my way to the end of the line and hoped for the best. One hour later, I was at the front of the line. An altar boy let me into the outer court. I made my way to a window, bought my ticket, and entered.
Almost immediately, I found my way from the narthex into the sanctuary. It was still nearly an hour before the call to worship; other altar boys were readying the sanctuary: raking the infield, chalking the baselines and batters' boxes, placing the bases.
As revered as Fenway is, its reputation is larger than its size. This service was a sellout -- 37,163 (official capacity is 36,102). Even with luxury boxes, the upper deck is modest. My "seat", standing room only on the first base line (section 5), had a great view of worship leaders in the infield (assuming the other worshippers were sitting down). It terms of proximity to the action, it felt like being in the nosebleeds for a hockey game at Staples, Arrowhead, or Nationwide.
One of the things I enjoy about a baseball service is the opportunity to strike up conversations with other worshippers. This time was no different, though worshippers at Fenway have an almost fanatical devotion to their Red Sox priests. They see worshipping any other team as abominable. Knowing this, I engaged in a little apostasy, an Ohio State hat the only sign of my loyalty to the Indians. Even that was enough for the faithful to question my loyalty to their red-socked priests.
In a baseball service, the spirit moves in mysterious ways over 54 outs, with pitches, catches, hits, tags, and baserunning. In this particular service, the mystery evaporated as soon as J.D. Drew launched a baseball over the Green Monster in left field. The worshippers left happy, recessing to The Standells' "Dirty Water".
The next night, I returned to soak in the atmosphere before Game 7. I left after the 6th inning, just as the riot police were bracing for post-worship celebrations.
I exited the Kenmore Square Station at dusk. Already, the area was buzzing with excitement; the Red Sox staved off elimination two nights earlier in Cleveland, still trailing the Indians 3-2 as they returned to the friendly confines of Fenway Park. Before checking out the activity at Fenway, I needed to scout out the Boston University Bookstore, site of the my alumni event the next afternoon.
Before walking down Brookline to Fenway, I needed something to eat: I had left Grinnell early that morning and hadn't had a real meal since arriving in Boston that afternoon. I picked up "dinner" -- a Snickers bar and Reese's Pieces" at 7-Eleven -- before standing in the shadows cast by the bright lights of Fenway.
There are people who lament the decline of religion in American society. I think their concerns are misguided, as religion is alive and well. Instead of worshipping the triune God of Christianity, they participate in relious rites at cathedrals of sport. Here, at the corner of Brookline Avenue and Yawkey Way, thousands of faithful had flocked to worship together.
Two hours before the call to worship, the streets surrounding Fenway Cathedral were awash in people dressed in the temple vestments - jerseys, sweatshirts, t-shirts, hats. The few cars that braved these streets crawled at a pedestrian pace. Some passed out tracts - scorecards, tabloids previewing the service, "K" posters to track strikeouts. Though this church frowned on the practice, some in the fold were willing to sell their seats to the service. Storefront churches surrounding the Fenway Cathedral had lines stretching longer than a basepath offering parishoners the sacraments once they entered: fried food, beer, and 100 televisions broadcasting the service. Already, Fenway Cathedral had begun playing the prelude to the service: Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band.
I saw a line of people waiting to enter Fenway at Gate E. I asked one if they were waiting to enter.
"No," one replied. "We're waiting to buy tickets."
"I thought this game was sold out."
This Cathedral sells a some tickets to the faithful the day of the game. "I got here at 11 a.m. The people at the front of the line arrived last night."
I had my chance to worship -- during high holy days, the playoffs -- in one of the great cathedral in all of Sport. I found my way to the end of the line and hoped for the best. One hour later, I was at the front of the line. An altar boy let me into the outer court. I made my way to a window, bought my ticket, and entered.
Almost immediately, I found my way from the narthex into the sanctuary. It was still nearly an hour before the call to worship; other altar boys were readying the sanctuary: raking the infield, chalking the baselines and batters' boxes, placing the bases.As revered as Fenway is, its reputation is larger than its size. This service was a sellout -- 37,163 (official capacity is 36,102). Even with luxury boxes, the upper deck is modest. My "seat", standing room only on the first base line (section 5), had a great view of worship leaders in the infield (assuming the other worshippers were sitting down). It terms of proximity to the action, it felt like being in the nosebleeds for a hockey game at Staples, Arrowhead, or Nationwide.
One of the things I enjoy about a baseball service is the opportunity to strike up conversations with other worshippers. This time was no different, though worshippers at Fenway have an almost fanatical devotion to their Red Sox priests. They see worshipping any other team as abominable. Knowing this, I engaged in a little apostasy, an Ohio State hat the only sign of my loyalty to the Indians. Even that was enough for the faithful to question my loyalty to their red-socked priests.
In a baseball service, the spirit moves in mysterious ways over 54 outs, with pitches, catches, hits, tags, and baserunning. In this particular service, the mystery evaporated as soon as J.D. Drew launched a baseball over the Green Monster in left field. The worshippers left happy, recessing to The Standells' "Dirty Water".The next night, I returned to soak in the atmosphere before Game 7. I left after the 6th inning, just as the riot police were bracing for post-worship celebrations.
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