This one time at Fenway...

Last month, there was a trend on Facebook. Amongst the cat memes and political ravings, people started to mark each day with something they are thankful for; people, places, things, whatever. I joined this brigade of folks giving thanks, and it struck me: why not show thanks for a memory? We all have them. We have these moments or hours or days that sit in our brains, a little happy place to which we can go when we are having a terrible day. This is one of mine...

I sing in a chorus for a big orchestra in this particular city; we'll call it Boston. ;) Last September I was asked to be part of a group of 16 singers that would perform the National Anthem at the season-closing game for the Red Sox. To say I was excited is sort of an understatement; I was jumping up and down in the middle of a grocery store, screaming.

I immediately texted all my family. It was the 100th season at Fenway, and there were all kinds of special things planned for this game. I was beside myself. The Red Sox are well-loved in my family. I can remember so many wonderful days spent in and around Fenway Park, or even sitting around the television at home, watching games, cheering and groaning together.

After this extraordinary invitation, I got even better news... MY DAD WAS GOING TO SING AS WELL!!! The day came, and we arrived at the ballpark in all our concert dress splendor. After ushering the group of us up to the offices at Fenway, our escort showed us to a room where we could rehearse for a little while. We waited to be brought down to the field for sound check. As we were waiting, my friend Joy hissed in my direction: "Laura, get out here right now!" I walked out of the room, into the main office area, and there was Pedro Martinez, walking past us and smiling a greeting. He asked a few of us "What are you guys doing tonight? You're all dressed up!" Someone said we were singing the National Anthem, and my big mouth couldn't resist: "There's still a spot open. Come sing with us!" He laughed and started to sing in an operatic voice, la-la-la ing down the hallway. 

Then we lined up and started our journey down to enter the field for sound check. As we walked the first hallway, a tall dapper gent stood by and my friend Joy and I said hello. He began to chat with Joy, and it took everything in my power not to squeal...she was having a lovely conversation with Carlton Fisk!!!!! I answered a question or two as well and we happily went our own ways. By now I had perma-grin on my face and was floating past pictures of every Fenway great my mom and dad had ever mentioned. We made our way through the tunnels into the stadium, and I just kept looking back in line to my dad, gesturing wildly. Oh my God this is actually happening! Dad smiled at me every time. 

Stepping onto the turf at Fenway is a religious experience. There. I said it. I would defy any fan to say they don't feel differently when they walk out there. The lights, the bright green of the grass, the murmur of the fans gathering and finding their seats are all things we are "used to", but they gain a new level of intensity when you're staring at it from home plate. It's amazing that those baseball players can get any work done! 

There were 20 chairs lined up behind home plate. THEY WERE FOR US.  Because the National Anthem was a part of extended opening ceremonies for the game, we would be watching the rest of them after we sang. While I tried to push my leaking brains back into my head, Dad and I spotted a friend: Dick Flavin! He had just performed in a show with us earlier that year, and was both a part of the opening of the game and announcing batters for the night. We had a great little reunion and got a few pictures with him on the field. Then Dad and I took a picture together at home plate. Tears welled in my eyes as a friend snapped that photo. I was about to sing at Fenway with my dad!!!

We sat, soaking in the park. Adi and I sat staring and grinning at each other like idiots every few minutes.  Then it all began. We filed into our formation between home plate and the pitcher's mound, got our starting pitch, and sang the National Anthem. I remember wanting to mark every moment, and so I stared into the crowd, at the other speakers and officials on the field, at our manager, at the few empty seats, and once in a while, at the conductor. (Sorry, Bill!) When we got our final cut-off, I let the cheers wash over me. Now, let's be clear: they weren't for me. They were for the beginning of a night to remember at the greatest ballpark in the world. And I was there, just as excited as every last kid sitting in the upper bleachers with their father.

From then on out, we were immersed in a sea of Fenway legends. Every living Red Sox great was there, and we were watching them up close. I swooned when Nomar was called to the field, cheered when Dick read his Fenway poem, and screamed as the honored guests all threw first pitches to the current Red Sox roster. Adi and I laughed when Carlton Fisk was called to the field, and Joy shrieked recognition of her chatting buddy from earlier in the evening. I texted Momma when Jim Lonborg began waving to the crowd, her childhood hero standing in front of me. 

Once the opening ceremonies ended, we were shown to our seats just under the Coca-Cola sign. Dad and I enjoyed yet another game at Fenway together, decked out in Boston gear over our dress clothes.

I have been lucky enough to have many amazing experiences in my life, and lots of them have been whilst surrounded by family. But when the car won't start, I'm not feeling my best, have a bad day of singing, or generally just need something to pick me up, I say to myself "There was this one time at Fenway...."