It requires a Herculean effort to live in Boston for any significant period of time and *not* find yourself—eventually—at a Sox game. Whether or not you’re from Boston … whether or not you like baseball … you inexplicably want to go, so you go.
In fact, I think every Boston-area university includes a Sox game in its freshman orientation shenanigans (or did back in the day, anyway), so if you went to school in Boston (like I did), you prolly went to a game before you had your first Robert Doisneau poster.
Well, not I. No, sir. I managed to resist that fate for going on 17 years. Not because I’m effete or above the enjoyment of men being men, et cetera. It was merely one of my many anemic claims to fame; it made me singular in this city of pink baseball caps.
You’ve NEVER been to a Sox game?!? Seriously? How does that even happen?!?!?
Oh, how I loved to have that conversation.
Last night, however, all that came to an end: I gave my delicate Red Sox flower to the new boy. It didn’t hurt nearly as much as I expected. To be perfectly honest, I ended up having a grand old time. There were many highlights, but one moment kinda stands out as a fave.
Kiki: Why do they play a different song every time a new player goes up to bat.
Dylan: The players pick those … whatever they want.
Kiki: If you were a baseball player, what would yours be?
He like didn’t even fucking hesitate:
How cute is that?
So, after careful consideration, I have selected the song that I would like to play over the loudspeakers at Fenway when I come to the plate, when I am a professional baseball player.
Wait for it.
