Dispatches from various shores

Oh, come on. It's a matter of maintaining a promise made months ago. And I for one am not keen on being known as a promise-breaker.

Which is why I've unexpectedly extended my latest foray to Massachusetts. The Red Sox rally is being held at Fenway in the morning, and I am fulfilling the vow I made after Boston won last year's World Series.

I was there for the first rally and they won. If there was cause for a second rally come fall 2005, I would be back in the ballpark, among the crazies willing to sit in a park with no players, no game to be played.

Just at Fenway because you have a chance to sit in seats you'd never normally be able to occupy, celebrating the completion of one part of a championship quest.

We're a superstitious bunch, Sox fans (for an example see: my mother's refusal to attend Friday night's Sox-Yankees game - which turned out to be incredible - because she can't even watch the matchup for fear of jinxing it). And if I didn't go to the rally and the Sox lost?

I'd expect to see a couple of fingers pointing in my direction.
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You almost want to hug the people who are making the space so loud that you need to lean in to hear the other half of the conversation you're trying to carry on.

A casually turned head, ear waiting to take in the sound of the voice and the amusing banter you're exchanging. It looks completely normal, nothing out of the ordinary. You do this all the time.

But inside? You're listening, you're communicating, but you're also trilling at the close proximity.

If I just turned, I could...no, stop thinking that! You're talking here! Oh, sound witty. Don't make an ass of yourself. Be cool...So close...I wonder what's going through that mind...good God I'm a dork...But I wonder...oh, this is fun. I hate this. Oh, no I don't.
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October air is supposed to be cool. Crisp. Ripe for sweaters or sweatshirts, or at least a long-sleeved shirt.

I leaned against the wall, painted the fabled faded green I'd learned to love. Activity bustled on the street just over the other side of the thick partition, and Johnny Damon stood directly ahead of me - save the 28 rows of seats between us. The view was incredible, the championship banner billowed in the breeze from its place to my right...

And I was broiling. A let's-get-that-soft-serve-now-and-pick-up-a-bottled-water-for-later kind of heat that seemed more fitting for the July game against Toronto than this regular season finale against New York.

Not that I was going to complain. The view was incredible, a group of Yankees and Red Sox fans were giving each other a hard time a few rows ahead of me, and Beth had recently recorded potentially incriminating video footage of me singing along to the recording of "Perfect Time of Day" as it was piped in through the speakers.

Howie Day at Fenway. Weird.

I'd never attended a Yankees-Sox game before, and I found myself oddly quiet for much of it - largely due to the fact that my usual cursing might be frowned upon, given the presence of Charles' little (read: young) brother. But the boos received by Jeter, A-Rod and Matsui were as loud as I'd (admittedly) hoped they would be and the bleachers ticketholders were as lively a crowd as I'd remembered them from games of my youth.

I could feel the sunburn developing and my water bottle's liquid level was lowering rapidly. I was taking calls with the update from the Pats game while relaying the Sox score, and the relief of hearing about Cleveland's defeat let us sit back and relax as the score climbed higher. Surreal? You bet.
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Let's say you hear a band that intrigues you. Good sound, catchy lyrics, impressive production. It's a promising start, I might think to myself. But I always have to hold off judgment until I see the band live.

Sometimes it doesn't live up to what you'd hoped. You walk away realizing you'll just have to listen to the album and leave it at that.

But when it clicks? Standing in a club, listening to the sound and moving your head back and forth, a giddy little flutter starts in your stomach and moves out from there.

There's a reason why people say they fall in love with a band. In many cases, there's no rhyme or reason to it - and two people can walk away with two very different takes on the band they just saw. It moves one, it leaves the other cold.

But I've been playing Speechwriters LLC on repeat since Friday night's venture to the Paradise Lounge. And feeling that giddy flutter continue to spread. They'll be back at the Lounge in October, during the weekend of Matty and Ryan - which means I'll be ready to submit a timesheet to the club management. Matt on Wednesday and Thursday. SLLC on Friday. Ryan Saturday.

And me? I'll know whether there can be too much of a good thing.
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Well, it's 4 a.m., the paper boy's at it again...

We're singing along to the familiar song, rounding the corner of 93 that reveals the Boston skyline. We know the little vocal flourishes, and we add them accordingly, reveling in the fact that this is the first time we've heard the song played on the radio.

There's always that doubletake that comes somewhere right before the chorus. Wait. I KNOW this. Sure, my friends know this, but other people do? Enough to play it on the radio? When did this happen?

Trizzy P on the radio. Well done. We clapped and cheered as the final "love, love, love" trailed off into the next song. So proud.
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"I know where I am, I just don't know how to get to where I want to be!"

Tom's laughing into the phone. I just dropped a friend off at Northeastern, and I'm trying to make my way to Commonwealth. I know Mass Ave. is a couple of turns on a seemingly one-way road behind me. I know exactly where I am.

I just can't get there from here. And it's pissing me off.

I've pretty good navigational skills. For the most part - once I've been somewhere, once I've driven the route, I've got it down. But add a new location or an unexpected turn and I'm a lost cause.

My familiarity with Boston grows in leaps each time I visit, and I take pride in my ability to get around.

But somehow, that turn off 93 onto Storrow that should have gotten me to Mass Ave. landed me on Cambridge, driving past City Hall. And I had no clue of how the hell to get anywhere.

"OK. I'm just going to keep you on the line, if that's cool." I'd already called Tom three times. He was laughing at me. Bastard.

"No worries. Now you should be at -"

"No. I'm not. Red light. So, um, how are you?"

He led me on a route by parks and bridges, past buildings I remembered walking by during the April trip back from Fenway. Each new turn left me more frustrated.

"I know where I am!"

"Want me to let you get there?"

"NOOOOOO. Sorry. OK. Now what?"

As I turned onto Commonwealth, I cheered.

"I LOVE YOU!"

"Look familiar?"

"If this doesn't, I've got huge problems. I know exactly where I am. I'm buying you lunch or something."

"Sounds good."

As I pulled into the parking lot, my phone rang. Michelle. I laughed over the misadventures as she launched into the game play-by-play until I reached the projected screen visible through the windows at T's...
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Weekend synopsis, as it stands: Random. Random. Random. But in a good way, for the most part. With visits to the North Shore, the South Shore and the city in between, it's been fun, alternately exhilerating and languid. There are photographs to be posted, stories to laugh over when I've the time and just a few wrinkles in the plans.

Here's to extending it all by one more day.