“Don’t speed!” Andy warned me as I pulled out of the driveway with Skip. Not sure why he said such a thing, as it is my habit to subconsciously do the opposite of what anyone tells me to do, and within ten minutes of departing for Boston, I was being pulled over somewhere in East Greenbush for speeding. (And I was still going less than I’ve seen Andy go on the Thruway on the regular.)
After accepting the ticket, part of me let out a sigh of relief – at least our police interaction was already done for the weekend. Thus began this year’s BroSox Adventure – a happy tradition we started eleven years ago, and one of our favorite rituals to kick off the summer season.
We began with stops at Eataly and Trader Joe’s, where we procured the items for a substantial charcuterie board, then headed back to the condo where we set up food shop until it was time to get a car to Fenway. I asked Skip to keep his ears peeled for a song that would personify the weekend, and as we filed into the ballpark we noticed all the men in kilts. Scotland was in Boston for the FIFA World Cup, and the place was filled with men in kilts. A group fell in behind us, their accents and actions the stuff of gay porn and worthy of adulation. I listened as Skip laughed.
The game was a good one – despite their sucky season, the Red Sox managed to win 10 to 1 – Skip and I have largely been a good luck charm for this franchise, and this night continued that streak. Our dinner would be the Fenway franks, which Skip maintains are the best hot dogs in the baseball world – and he’s done all the testing.
A number of years ago, when we were sitting at Fenway watching a game, I had spit out a mouthful of beer on the two guys in front of us after something struck me as funny. They were not amused, and this year karma came back, but it delivered its blow upon Skip. A group of young fans behind us were attending their first game (I’m assuming, as they kept asking for relish for their hot dogs which five sellers kept telling them they didn’t have). They were a little obnoxious, but such is the province of youth. I told Skip that was likely us ten years ago; he disagreed.
As a wave made its way around the park, we stood and raised our hands, and one of the guys behind us knocked the beer out of the hand of another, which promptly spilled all over Skip. He was good about it; the woman next to us seemed more upset – she wanted us to raise a ruckus and demand that they buy him a drink. Thankfully, cooler heads prevailed. Maybe we have grown up a bit.
When the game was over we walked back toward the condo, stopping for gelato at Eataly and making the most of a perfectly-marvelous almost-summer night.
The next morning we slept in, at least what constitutes sleeping in for middle-aged men these days, and the day was already heating up. Sunny and mid-80’s was the happy weather plan, and knowing this we wandered along our usual path on Newbury Street and all the way to Beacon Hill for some future project ideas (let’s just say someone got a cowboy hat). At some point Skip saw a guy in a t-shirt that read ‘YES SIR I CAN BOOGIE!’ which was on the playlist for this summer’s theme – and suddenly we had our song for the weekend like Magic!
By midday Skip was lagging, and I was feeling the heat too, so we made our way back to the condo for an extra-long siesta. The older we get, the more we value the afternoon nap it seems. That said, I didn’t get much shut-eye, and I wanted to try a possible summer cologne so I left Skip to his rest, and made a quick jaunt to Saks where I found a summer fragrance by Guerlain.
When I got back, we readied for an appetizer and drinks at Pink Taco where we enjoyed an excellent dinner last year, then walked around while World Cup madness seized the city. For the first time in a long time Boston felt alive and vibrant, caught up in the excitement of all the visiting Scots, and we found a Mexican bar in the South End where we set up to watch the game.
The weekend of sports didn’t end there, as we managed to catch the final minutes of the Knicks game playing in another bar, where we watched with a few other NY fans from the sidewalk, then found a pizza joint that had Skip claims is the first decent pizza we’ve had in Boston for all these years.
Walking in the twilight and stumbling over the uneven brick-laden sidewalks of the South End – tree roots like earthquakes buckling the ground beneath our feet – we made our way back toward home. Two men spilling over into the second half of their lives, still searching for what it all means, still finding ways of adapting, still embracing the friendship that makes it all worthwhile…
It was a good trip.
