The Green Grass of Home

by Robert Nishihara

Fenway Park is a remarkably green place.

From the Green Monster to the green façade of the grandstand to the immaculately groomed grass of the infield and outfield, Fenway has a decidedly emerald aura to it. Unfortunately, another shade of green hovers over the classic ballpark these days. It has been said that money changes everything, and money clearly threatens to change Fenway Park forever. More to the point, money threatens to turn baseball's most beloved cathedral into a pile of rubble.

As politicians and baseball executives haggle over the details of a seemingly inevitable gizmo-laden, high tech monstrosity destined to replace the one-time home of Ted Williams, Carl Yastrzemski, and Babe Ruth (Fenway being the "house" in which he began his major league career before he moved to the one he "built"), one undeniable fact remains. Fenway is an irreplaceable ballpark.

No matter how shiny and new the future park promises to be. No matter how many elements are stripped out of the old park to be transferred to the new one (the Green Monster and the center field bleachers are said to be among the items that will be reinstalled in any new Red Sox park). There isn't an architect on the planet who can design a faux equivalent of the eclectic mix of character, history, and downright quirkiness that makes Fenway unlike any baseball park before it or since. For any fan who has visited the venerable ballpark, it would be hard to imagine the game of baseball being played in a more suitable venue.

On a sunsplashed August afternoon two summers ago, I saw my first game at Fenway. Pedro Martinez was baffling the opposition, his change-up proving to be a devastating complement to his fastball. Nomar Garciaparra made two sparkling defensive plays, one an off-balanced throw from deep in the hole to get the runner by a fraction of a step. But as I sat with a cold Sam Adams in hand and eyes riveted to the action on the diamond, I started to become profoundly aware of something else. The aura and energy of the game didn't become diluted (or, in the case of many other parks I have visited, fully dissolved) as it drifted from the action on the field into the stands. The place absolutely buzzed when Pedro hit a spot on the plate perfectly or when a Red Sox hitter sent a sharply hit ball hissing through the infield for a base hit.

As the game moved on, weaving its way leisurely from pitch-to-pitch and batter-to-batter, the crowd stayed connected, keenly aware of the highs and lows. Unlike many ultra modern ballparks that practically beg for distraction from the playing field, Fenway Park actually draws fans more intensely into the game. The Green Monster, the wildly meandering path of the center and right field walls, and the tiny allotment of foul territory are all characteristics of the park designed to encourage the spectacular and, thus, draw focus and undivided attention to the game and playing field.

With the sun shining on the pockmarked surface of the most famous outfield wall in the history of the sport, I also became aware that the park's history bleeds its way into the crowd's consciousness. It is nearly impossible to see a ball drifting close to the foul pole in left and not have a momentary flash of Carlton Fisk and his frantic gesturing, trying to will his long fly ball fair in the Œ75 Series. Any crisply hit ball into the right center field gap evokes images of the great Ted Williams, who built much of his Hall of Fame career on the vicious drives he sent careening around or completely out of the uniquely angled park. And, in an instant, the present can be snapped back into focus when a star on the current roster draws a roar from the crowd. This rich blend of past and present hangs palpably over the park, alternating back and forth as events of the game dictate.

With the afternoon fading, the home team finally dispatched the visitors. Derek Lowe ended the game by inducing Scott Sheldon to hit the proverbial two-hop grounder to Nomar. As the crowd spilled out of the park after the final out, the game seemed to spill out into the streets as well. Sox souvenirs were being hawked. The familiar aroma of grilled ballpark fare filled the air. Fans were still bantering about Pedro's pinpoint control and Nomar's spectacular throw. Many fans continued to linger in the streets surrounding the stadium, ducking into a souvenir shop or two or grabbing a bite at a food cart, all the while hypothesizing about what would finally bring the team ever-elusive success. I suppose one might reasonably argue that you don't watch a game at Fenway Park. Rather, you experience a game there. The difference being that the experience doesn't necessarily end when the game does. It is an experience that lingers with you for as long as you allow it.

Thinking back on that afternoon, I am reminded of the old Jim Croce tune, "You Don't Mess Around With Jim". The chorus includes the lines: You don't tug on Superman's cape, you don't spit into the wind, you don't pull the mask of the old Lone Ranger, and you don't mess around with Jim. That having been said, I would simply add that you don't change Wrigley Field, you leave Yankee Stadium as is, you put the Tigers back in Tiger Stadium (where they belong), and you sure as hell don't rip Fenway Park into pieces.

If Fenway Park does, in fact, meet the wrecking ball, as so many historic ballparks have before, a goodly portion of baseball's charm and history will go with it. Even though the team's pocketbook may, indeed, benefit from a move to supposed greener pastures, the price paid by the game itself for such a move seems beyond appraisal.

In this instance, the grass on this side of the fence looks just fine to me.