Living within 4.3 miles of Fenway Park, as the crow flies, it shouldn’t be quite such an ordeal getting to a game.
I could walk for about an hour and a half, which isn’t the worst option when the humidity isn’t at its current 114 percent level, where it’s been for the past six weeks. There’s the T, and when it’s actually running, the Red Line to the Green Line should take about 30 minutes. But the red line doesn’t really run these days, and the aforementioned humidity turns Park Street into a sweltering torture chamber. Then there’s driving, which is a more horrible option as each day passes.
But truth be told, these are minor inconveniences. If I was invested and careful with money, I could go see the Red Sox much more often than I do. And with the specter of turning that four mile distance into about 20 looming in the coming weeks, it seemed right to head back out to a game.
I did, and they lost 6-2 to the Kansas City Royals. That’s the least important part of this, though. Continue reading
Such is the life of casual baseball viewing: On Thursday night I was reading a book at my desk, feet propped up, with the Red Sox in my peripheral vision and serving as background noise. They were in the early stages of a 19-3 beat down of the Yankees to start a four-game series that could determine whether the end of this summer has the team in the pennant race or another eight weeks of pleasant background noise. It’s not an exaggeration to say that, after four World Series wins in 14 years, either will be fine with me.
Anyway. As I was getting more and more engrossed in Ryan H. Walsh’s Astral Weeks: A Secret History of 1968 and all the nooks and crannies of Boston as a city in transition, I was snapped 51 years back into the present thanks to some ambient mics:
“OH GODDAMN IT!” Continue reading
Driving home around 4 p.m. yesterday up the Southeast Expressway, I realized I needed to buy new windshield wipers. The levels of snow and salt and frozen rain and more snow have taken their toll, leaving giant streaks that immediately smudged and fogged up and took the already limited visibility of the early stage of what is now our fourth major snow storm in the past three weeks (plus all those little 3-5 inch jobs in between) down to almost nothing. I have to think I used most of my windshield wiper fluid cleaning up as I drove the final 10 miles home.
So, windshield wipers are on my shopping list now. I’ve already bought four new tires, road salt and extra long johns to wear underneath all the other layers that have been somehow even more necessary that usual. After I got home, the latest blizzard really got to work, and I woke up this morning to the most snow I’ve ever seen. Seven feet of snow have fallen in Boston and practically none of it has melted. February in New England is never a picnic, but this is insanity.
And so begins the search for little victories in this never-ending blizzard. There are a lot of movies to catch up on. We try to get out for a drink every couple of nights just to get out of the apartment. We caught a Celtics game a week ago, which was a blast and a nice taste of normalcy in this psychological experiment disguised as winter. Continue reading
Brock Holt is just hitting everything he sees, it seems.
On April 19, the Boston Red Sox came back in the late innings to top the Baltimore Orioles at Fenway Park. David Ortiz took Bud Norris deep to right field for a fourth-inning home run, and in the bottom of the seventh, Brock Holt, batting ninth and playing third in place of an injured Will Middlebrooks, hit a triple into the triangle to tie the game and, eventually, score the go-ahead run on a Jonathan Herrera bunt.
Since then, the Red Sox have been down, then up, and then down again. But two constants seem to be taking shape. First, Ortiz is still a monster and hits when he’s supposed to hit. And Holt has become the team’s best hope for a catalyst, someone at the top of the order to work pitchers and give the rest of the lineup a chance as spring turns to summer and the season starts to dwindle.
It’s still a weird team and a weird season where they don’t seem as out of the race as they likely should seem. Jonny Gomes has played much more than he should, thanks to injuries and the unofficial exile of Daniel Nava (though he seems to be squeaking back into the lineup). The season isn’t yet a lost cause, and there’s plenty to be hopeful for this season — Jon Lester and John Lackey anchoring the rotation, the continued growth of Xander Bogaerts, Mike Napoli getting on base every single day, David Ortiz doing his David Ortiz thing whenever possible, etc. Continue reading