Good morning!
A couple of weeks ago I had two bleacher tickets I didn’t need. A Florida friend who’d moved back to Everett wanted to meet at a Red Sox game but was sick.
The seats cost $87 on StubHub and it was a nice day so I drove the back roads through Warwick and stopped for breakfast at Johnson’s Farm on the outskirts of Athol and Orange. After an omelette, home fries, coffee and donut, I drove down Wheeler Avenue, past the road construction near Walmart and onto Route 2 toward Memorial Drive in Cambridge.
Inside Trader Joe’s, I bought a chocolate bar and left the receipt on the dashboard of my car that I had parked in a corner of the parking lot and began walking. The Boston University Bridge crosses the Charles River onto Commonwealth Avenue, which by now is teeming with students who’ve arrived for the fall semester.
A farmstand in front of the Student Union was selling sweet corn for $8 a dozen. The vendor said it was picked on a farm in Sharon, about 15 miles south of Boston.
“I’m from western Mass.,” I said, “Connecticut River Valley.”
I said it like, “Our corn’s better than yours.”
Above Yawkey Station, a hardhat stepped out of a construction zone where a crane and bulldozers were moving over the dark brown earth. “That’s the foundation,” he said.
“How many stories?” I asked him.
“That one’s seven,” he said, pointing to to his left, “and that one’s 13.”
Down below, I counted seven people waiting for the train, and six of them were staring at their — whattya call ‘em these days? Devices? Or is it still smartphones? It was a better look when commuters read newspapers, but I’m partial to hard copy.
I walked past them and down into the parking lot where fans were slamming car doors and taking selfies. Up ahead, I heard the the familiar refrain: “Who’s got tickets?”
He was heavyset, in his 30s and wore a T-shirt, shorts, dirty socks and sneakers — the scalper’s work suit. “Got tickets? he asked.
“I got two,” I said.
He looked at them and said, “Whattya want, $70?”
“Gimme $80 so I can get even,” I answered, and he peeled off four $20 bills. Business had to be good for him to pay $40 each for $25 tickets that were 33 rows up in the bleachers.
It’s where the laid back, trendy beautiful people sit, but I prefer being closer to the game. The last time I remember being there was in my early 20s, drinking beers with Mike Russo. We had bumped into each other, probably at the beer stand.
It was before Mike became coach of the Williams College soccer team. Back then, he was simply the older brother of my friend Mark Russo, and they lived next to Vic and Carol Russo on a bluff under Mt. Pocumtuck that we called Russoville.
It was an afternoon game against Cleveland, and I stepped into the line of fans who were waiting to buy tickets at the box office on Yawkey Way — er, Jersey Street.
There were (by my count) 93 fans ahead of me. “I can’t believe he’d do that,” said a father behind me. “I can’t believe he’d do that on purpose!”
Two fathers and three kids, out for a Rockwellian day at the ballpark. I made small talk with the other dad and learned they lived north of Burlington, Vt., and had driven five hours. Traffic was good until they got near the city. “You guys get burned on tickets?” I asked.
He nodded and looked toward the jilted father. “He did.”
These days, tickets purchased online can be printed at home, but the barcode only works once. Unscrupulous scalpers can scan the same seats over and over, then go to various parts of the park and sell them to unsuspecting rubes.
It’s an historic season in Boston and the Red Sox are selling out, but there’s always a few seats for sale. Season ticket holders call if they’re not coming, and the rest will get crammed into standing room. We were lined up under the Green Monster like lambs ready for slaughter. Scalpers flashed tickets, enticing us to abandon the wait. “Everything’s expensive,” one of them said, jerking his head toward the box office.
He showed me a $190 ticket. “I’d sell this to you for $150, or standing room’s $60,” he said with a raspy, Boston accent.
I thought about being inside, jostling with fans who’d be four deep from first base around to the left field wall. It was hot, the blue-shirted Red Sox security people would be pushing us back so fans could get through with their popcorn.
Been there, done that.
I stepped off the sidewalk onto the curb and walked past the Cask ’n Flagon toward Gate A. An overweight man was bent over next to a street pole, ignored by the phalanx of fans that were rushing to get into the game. He was having trouble breathing, and I asked if he needed some help. He thought a moment and said, “Yes.”
A young Red Sox employee who was standing next to a sawhorse on the street beckoned someone to come with me, but the man was gone. “He must’ve decided he’d rather die at a ballgame than in the hospital,” I said.
I stopped briefly inside a souvenir store to check the prices. An MLB baseball that cost $15 at Walmart cost $35, a short-sleeved Mookie Betts jersey was $110, and a foam finger that was bound to obstruct someone’s view cost $10.
I patted my pocket. Eighty bucks. I got in the car and drove home.
Chip Ainsworth is an award-winning columnist who has penned his observations about sports for four decades in the Pioneer Valley. He can be reached by email at sports@recorder.com.