Ladies and gentlemen, dudes and dudettes, fans of Star Trek and Star Trek: The Next Generation alike, I have been to the other side. And it is good.
No, none of that “Crossing Over” bullsh-t. I haven’t been receiving messages from my late Aunt Gwen through the toaster. But I did have the opportunity, last night, to view the game from the comfort of a “luxury suite” on the left field side, thanks to my man Curtis Interruptus.
I’ve sat pretty much everywhere at Fenway. The Monstah seats. The bleachers. Boxes near the dugout. Standing room twenty miles from home plate. The roof box. The “let’s all die from sunstroke” section in right field. But I’ve never watched the game from one of the suites. Until last night. Until I experienced the glory.
My first concern was that I’d feel like I was watching the game in an elevator, all wood and metal and five-inch thick glass separating me from the action. But sh-t ain’t like that. Yeah, part of the view is through glass, but for half of the suite — at least the one we were in — the window opens wide, giving you a fantastic view of the unfolding action below. You know, every Wily Mo dropping of a fly ball, every inning too long that Timlin’s left in. Stuff like that.
The chairs — yeah, that’s right… they’re nice enough to be called “chairs” — are like those found in a movie theatre — cushy, comfy, with cup holders for your beer or syringe. As a denizen of Section 16, I can testify that they are nothing like the medieval torture devices known as the grandstand seats.
The best part, however, is the chow. The free chow. Not so much the quality but the quantity. Boatloads of chicken, sausages, egg rolls, hot dogs, salad, burgers, pizza, cookies, peanuts, popcorn, beer, wine, soda — the sort of spread that triggers the “must eat/drink everything as I may never eat again” response. And then there’s the proximity. When I’m in Section 16 and I want a beer, I get out my trusty map, go upstairs, downstairs, across ramps, through human asteroids of every shape and size to take my place in line and spend a half-inning moseying to the tap. In the suite, I get up, walk ten steps (I counted) to the fridge. Open. Extract beer (In this case, Sam Adams Light). Return to seat. Resume loud, obnoxious complaining about the fact that Manny’s 2-for-8 in this series.
Still, no matter how many times I hung out the window to shout at the devil, I felt oddly disconnected from the crowd. Like I was on some kinda secret moonbase, watching the game via secret transmission.
Anyway, I took a few pics:
On the way in, we see Larry Lucchino himself, stopping to talk to the common folk. Or maybe they were relatives. Either way, this was my second ever official “spotting a famous Red Sox fella on my way inside Fenway” moment. The first was seeing Tom Gordon jogging past the Cask back in the day.
Getting to the luxury suite involved a bizarre route, full of elevators and secret handshakes and long, wooden corridors. At times, you pass a few points such as this, full of fences and sattelite dishes.
One of the views. Look close and note the reflection of the person in front wearing an “Everybody Loves a Big Guy” shirt with Peter from Family Guy.
Me: [hanging out window] Keeeelllllyyyy! Keeeelllllyyyy!
Dude next to me: Er, I don’t think that’s Kelly.
Me: [sits down quickly, quitely resumes munching chicken.]
One of the window views. This one’s closed.
The other window view. This one’s open. The “choice” seating in this suite.
This is roughly the view below us.
And, lest we forget…
Oh, and the game? Sucked. Although I didn’t realize until I watched the replay this morning how much Wily Mo should have had that ball. Just a horrible, horrible game that we really, really needed to win. Particularly with Wells heading off against 14-5 Justin Verlander tonight. Why does Timlin stay in the game after walking the leadoff guy in the ninth? I mean, we got a great eighth out of him, settin’ ’em down, 1-2-3. At that point, don’t we say, “Nice job, mate,” give him the glad hand and get someone else in there for the ninth? I mean, I know they like to handle the kids with kid gloves, but, jesus, if we can’t pull out all stops to win critical games in August, then what are we savin’ ’em for? Crikee!
