Being atop the Green Monster has many highlights. One, my brother and husband were assured, was that if one gets to the park in time for batting practice, he is certain to catch flies. BYOG.
Jim brought his glove, the well-weathered one he had used while coaching seasons of Little League teams in Portsmouth.
It has settled into a cobalt-blue mug which is by my husband’s desk and itself bears a light dust: a single memento was the only thing my husband ever asked of our children when they settled upon schools. This mug, from our elder son’s undergraduate institution, bears a slogan that always makes me reflect, and which was an inherent creed of Jim’s: “Truth, even unto its innermost parts.”
Because I tend toward the alliterative, I considered titling this post a “Frisson of Fenway,” but that seems too delicate for the brand of fans that urged everyone to “Cowboy Up” during fairly recent playoff series. And to feel a frisson of anything seems to me inherently forward-looking, while this dusting of ballpark detritus is more of a call to the past.
On the other hand, it seems indecorous, and somewhat dispirited, to label as a “smear” the light lines where an authentic Red Sox batter made contact with this ball, possibly after tapping his bat to the ground, kicking up particles of sand which sprayed upwards in the setting sunlight.
So I am settling for a dusting—reminiscent to me of wizards and fairies and gold and magic, of fathers and sons on the field, of unprecedented come-from-behind victories, of wishes coming true.
(c) 2012 Stephanie M. Glennon