Post by Mariners on Apr 13, 2007 10:39:22 GMT -5
By MIKE UNDERWOOD
First of all, my American cousins, allow me to apologise - sorry, apologize - in advance for my ignorance.
You see, as an Englishman, I come from a baseball-less universe.
It is a universe where your beloved sport is no more of an attraction than dominoes or tiddlywinks. That isn’t to say we haven’t heard of it. It gets a sporadic showing on a late night U.K. TV channel - nestled in among soft-core porn movies, live TV poker and sex chat commercials.
That aside, another reason it hasn’t taken off in England could be due to the jargon.
For instance, in England a strike is something airport workers regularly do, a pitcher is something we drink a lot of beer from and a baseball bat is used only for home security.
So armed with a head devoid of baseball know-how, it was with trepidation and curiosity that I accepted an assignment to experience the fun, frivolity and fanaticism of Fenway Park on opening day.
My only point of reference is soccer - a sport which attracts equally passionate support in England.
So how do Fenway Park, the Red Sox and baseball compare? Well, the differences were glaring from the moment I stepped on the Green Line to Kenmore.
It was like walking into a red tidal wave.
People plastered themselves with Red Sox paraphernalia. Hats, coats, sweaters, T-shirts, pants, bags and caps were all branded with the same trademark ‘‘B’’ or a pair of red socks.
Each and every one of the fans who crammed into the train also wore the same look on their face. It was the same expression children get as they are about to open their presents on Christmas morning.
That same optimism could be felt outside Fenway Park. I was greeted by a party atmosphere as I stepped onto Yawkey Way.
This was a carnival.
To put you in the picture, the same time of day outside a soccer stadium in the U.K. can be oppressive with police herding fans quickly into the stadium to prevent rival factions clashing.
So as not to look out of place, I grabbed a beer and a Monster hot dog, which brings me to the next big difference between England and the States - food.
No dodgy-looking burgers, haggard sausages, limp pies and thick, lumpy gravy.
Instead, giant hot dogs, glistening pretzels, the scent of fried dough and other goodies were on offer to draw me in.
Inside the grand old stadium, it was quaint to hear old-fashioned organ music being pumped into the ground instead of the pain-inducing dance and chart music which welcomes soccer fans in Blighty.
I must admit, I felt like an atheist in a church on a holy day. A gate-crasher. An impostor.
I felt that at any moment the congregation, all fluent in Red Sox folklore and gospel, would expose me as a heathen and usher me out.
Fortunately, the familiar sounds of Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band by The Beatles belted out over the loudspeaker and I felt slightly less alien.
I followed the music and walked out into the stadium. The altar.
As the arena filled with fans, the atmosphere began to grab me. The anticipation, excitement and optimism were almost tangible.
First, the Seattle Mariners were introduced to the crowd. Each player, coach and trainer was booed with equal zeal.
The only one to escape abuse, and who was in fact applauded, was the bat boy. I don’t know what his job is, but he sounded popular.
Then came the Red Sox. Familiar names echoed around the stadium to rapturous applause. ‘‘Big Papi’’ David Ortiz, Manny Ramirez, Curt Schilling and, of course, Dice-K.
Even the Red Sox’ new Japanese interpreter was given an ovation.
Next on the pre-game menu was the 1967 Red Sox team.
The old men who hobbled out to throw the opening pitch of the season were greeted like heroes as a sentimental narrative over the loud speaker told how the team ‘‘dreamed the impossible dream.’’
The pageantry, grandeur, sense of occasion and patriotism is just unparalleled here in the States.
When the game began the crowd, already whipped into a patriotic and nostalgic frenzy, went crazy as the Red Sox raced into a 4-0 lead in the first inning.
I watched from the right-field grandstand as Boston’s favorite sons made the Mariners look like idiots.
But it was incidental moments that really struck me.
In England, we don’t get seat service, so the vendor who threw bags of nuts to hungry fans with the same unerring accuracy as a pitcher was a joy to behold.
The fact that people passed money down a line to pay him without a penny going in someone’s pocket was almost as impressive.
I was also amazed at just how civilized the crowd was. When a ball was hit into the crowd and caught by a fan, everyone cheered that the fan got to go home with a wonderful keepsake.
The crowd got noticeably drunker, more vocal and more abusive to the Mariners - but it didn’t spiral out of control.
As I made my way out of the stadium to the sound of The Standells’ ‘‘Dirty Water’’ echoing along Yawkey Way, I felt as if I had been part of something special.
If a soccer heathen like me can be converted, then perhaps there is hope that the good word of baseball will one day spread throughout Britain.
Maybe then the World Series will be worthy of its misleading name. Amen.
Mike Underwood is a staff reporter for The Enterprise in Brockton. He may be reached at munderwood@enterprisenews.com .
Copyright 2007 The Patriot Ledger
Transmitted Thursday, April 12, 2007
First of all, my American cousins, allow me to apologise - sorry, apologize - in advance for my ignorance.
You see, as an Englishman, I come from a baseball-less universe.
It is a universe where your beloved sport is no more of an attraction than dominoes or tiddlywinks. That isn’t to say we haven’t heard of it. It gets a sporadic showing on a late night U.K. TV channel - nestled in among soft-core porn movies, live TV poker and sex chat commercials.
That aside, another reason it hasn’t taken off in England could be due to the jargon.
For instance, in England a strike is something airport workers regularly do, a pitcher is something we drink a lot of beer from and a baseball bat is used only for home security.
So armed with a head devoid of baseball know-how, it was with trepidation and curiosity that I accepted an assignment to experience the fun, frivolity and fanaticism of Fenway Park on opening day.
My only point of reference is soccer - a sport which attracts equally passionate support in England.
So how do Fenway Park, the Red Sox and baseball compare? Well, the differences were glaring from the moment I stepped on the Green Line to Kenmore.
It was like walking into a red tidal wave.
People plastered themselves with Red Sox paraphernalia. Hats, coats, sweaters, T-shirts, pants, bags and caps were all branded with the same trademark ‘‘B’’ or a pair of red socks.
Each and every one of the fans who crammed into the train also wore the same look on their face. It was the same expression children get as they are about to open their presents on Christmas morning.
That same optimism could be felt outside Fenway Park. I was greeted by a party atmosphere as I stepped onto Yawkey Way.
This was a carnival.
To put you in the picture, the same time of day outside a soccer stadium in the U.K. can be oppressive with police herding fans quickly into the stadium to prevent rival factions clashing.
So as not to look out of place, I grabbed a beer and a Monster hot dog, which brings me to the next big difference between England and the States - food.
No dodgy-looking burgers, haggard sausages, limp pies and thick, lumpy gravy.
Instead, giant hot dogs, glistening pretzels, the scent of fried dough and other goodies were on offer to draw me in.
Inside the grand old stadium, it was quaint to hear old-fashioned organ music being pumped into the ground instead of the pain-inducing dance and chart music which welcomes soccer fans in Blighty.
I must admit, I felt like an atheist in a church on a holy day. A gate-crasher. An impostor.
I felt that at any moment the congregation, all fluent in Red Sox folklore and gospel, would expose me as a heathen and usher me out.
Fortunately, the familiar sounds of Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band by The Beatles belted out over the loudspeaker and I felt slightly less alien.
I followed the music and walked out into the stadium. The altar.
As the arena filled with fans, the atmosphere began to grab me. The anticipation, excitement and optimism were almost tangible.
First, the Seattle Mariners were introduced to the crowd. Each player, coach and trainer was booed with equal zeal.
The only one to escape abuse, and who was in fact applauded, was the bat boy. I don’t know what his job is, but he sounded popular.
Then came the Red Sox. Familiar names echoed around the stadium to rapturous applause. ‘‘Big Papi’’ David Ortiz, Manny Ramirez, Curt Schilling and, of course, Dice-K.
Even the Red Sox’ new Japanese interpreter was given an ovation.
Next on the pre-game menu was the 1967 Red Sox team.
The old men who hobbled out to throw the opening pitch of the season were greeted like heroes as a sentimental narrative over the loud speaker told how the team ‘‘dreamed the impossible dream.’’
The pageantry, grandeur, sense of occasion and patriotism is just unparalleled here in the States.
When the game began the crowd, already whipped into a patriotic and nostalgic frenzy, went crazy as the Red Sox raced into a 4-0 lead in the first inning.
I watched from the right-field grandstand as Boston’s favorite sons made the Mariners look like idiots.
But it was incidental moments that really struck me.
In England, we don’t get seat service, so the vendor who threw bags of nuts to hungry fans with the same unerring accuracy as a pitcher was a joy to behold.
The fact that people passed money down a line to pay him without a penny going in someone’s pocket was almost as impressive.
I was also amazed at just how civilized the crowd was. When a ball was hit into the crowd and caught by a fan, everyone cheered that the fan got to go home with a wonderful keepsake.
The crowd got noticeably drunker, more vocal and more abusive to the Mariners - but it didn’t spiral out of control.
As I made my way out of the stadium to the sound of The Standells’ ‘‘Dirty Water’’ echoing along Yawkey Way, I felt as if I had been part of something special.
If a soccer heathen like me can be converted, then perhaps there is hope that the good word of baseball will one day spread throughout Britain.
Maybe then the World Series will be worthy of its misleading name. Amen.
Mike Underwood is a staff reporter for The Enterprise in Brockton. He may be reached at munderwood@enterprisenews.com .
Copyright 2007 The Patriot Ledger
Transmitted Thursday, April 12, 2007