From Her Perspective

Okay, so I have been writing for Barstool for almost two years now (I know, it’s weird, I was surprised, too) and I don’t think I’ve mentioned sports beyond a throwaway sentence or two.  This is because I know pretty much nothing about sports.  I am always fully abreast (ha, breast) of who athletes are dating and I do watch baseball, but I don’t really follow it.  That said, I love going to games.  All games are fun, but of course going to Fenway is the best.  I went for the first time this season on Saturday, and it of course did not disappoint.  Here is a short list of the things I love about Fenway.

I love drinking beer on the street.  I don’t care that I had to cash in my 401K (okay, fine, I don’t think I have one of those) to get drunk.  When it comes to baseball games, all bets are off and I will spend the $98 per beer and think nothing of it.  And it’s because I love drinking in the street before the game.  I don’t know what it is, maybe it hearkens back to college days, sitting with your keg cup and watching all of the drunk kids fall all over the place.  Maybe it makes me feel like I’m in Vegas, walking around with my booze.  Whatever it is, there is nothing that soothes my soul more than standing around on the sidewalk, and maybe leaning on a table if there is nobody else using it (I am not into sharing with strangers). 

The little kids who never stop eating.  I definitely fell into this category as an elementary schooler.  Okay, fine, and present day, too.  But I love these little kids who don’t open their mouths to cheer or talk or do anything but chew and occasionally whisper in their parents’ ears that they want more popcorn or ice cream.  I also love that they weigh about thirty-five pounds and their knobby little knees and wrists can barely support that giant cotton candy they’re inhaling.  

Drunk moms.  There is always a group of middle-aged women, decked out in their best mom jeans and baseball caps, sitting within earshot.  They’re rowdy, they’re loud, they drink malternatives.  But they are also friendly and hilarious and you always end up being best friends with at least one.  Especially if you are a guy.  If you are a guy, it is certain that you will end up with the phone number or business card of one of their daughters.  And you’d better call, because even though she’s missing three teeth, she can cook and that means she’ll be off the market faster than you can finish that teeny cup of overpriced Sam Adams. 

I love Massholes.  I am being completely serious.  I love it.  I love that most Massholes are terrified of Boston and have only been to town four times in their whole lives.  I love the accents, which are curiously thicker than those who actually live in the area.  I love the affinity for stone wash.  I love the shamrock and Red Sox tattoos.  I love that they know everything there is to know about baseball.  They start the “Yankees Suck” cheers and they’re the ones who end up in wifebeaters by the ninth inning, standing up on their seats and dancing and screaming, getting everyone all fired up. And it’s great.

Nacho cheese.  Enough said. 

Everyone knows that going to Fenway is a singular experience that cannot be replicated at any other park, stadium, or corporate-sponsored center in the world.  But it’s more than the shiny plastic seats, the fact that they sell clam chowder at the concession stand and people actually eat it, and that everyone goes crazy singing Sweet Caroline (why do they play that at every game, anyway?).  I guess, for me, I feel like I’m part of something bigger than just me, and it’s pretty cool.  I remember going to games with my father when I was little, and I have just as much fun now as I did back then.  And if I start saving now, maybe I can afford to go again at the end of the summer.  Go Sox!