Fenway, you're my home

There's always something magical about the first time of anything important. There's the ubiquitous first time, which gives everyone a memory (well unless you're a nun, I guess). But, and I hate admitting this, but this first time was much more fun.
My cousin had called me with a note that he had something he needed to tell me "ASAP." Well, it had to be something related to the Boston Red Sox because my cousin and I have nothing in common except baseball. So I
phoned him up and he told me he had seats eight rows behind home plate for this weekend's game against the best team in the AL, the White Sox. I freaked. My first time right behind the plate...looking into Schilling's eyes and thinking he was actually looking at me instead of Doug Mirabelli's crotch?
The first time I saw Fenway, I got teary. It was so beautiful, as beautiful as the Grand Canyon or the lights of Vegas. All the sponsors' lights blinking, the majestic green...I don't even want to finish this sentence.
We were seated in the Gillette box along with a direct salesman for Gillette and his daughter, who was my age. She worked with dead bodies for some reason for Johnson and Johnson, I didn't pick up what she actually did. She had a boyfriend who saw us dance on TV when Ortiz scored. He sounded supportive.
I had had a few drinks at the Cask n Flagon before the game (Sam's of course) so I was feeling pretty confident. Wake was pitching in air as thick as water, just what he needed. When Varitek went out to catch Wake's practice throws, they were midget sized, almost human sized. Last Sox game I went to, there was but micromachine sized, not meant for this world. Now, I could see their human qualities. I saw that Papi isn't as fat as the TV makes him out to be (perhaps the TV does add ten pounds)...I watched Manny's long textured hair bounce against his neck. I felt as though I was at a very special little league at home, where you get a great seat to watch the people you love play to impress you and get your respect. Of course, I already respected them, like a mother would.
There was a little girl sitting in front of me who kept staring me (I'm not used to eyes on me). I made monster faces and she laughed and stuck her tongue out at me. Her father told her to be mature. How could she, she was four!
A thunderstorm rumbled in the distance, and I heard the full grown man next to me wince.
"I'm afraid of lightning," he said as he gripped his blonde girlfriend. "I just can't help it."
The girlfriend laughed, "It's true," she told me.
I told them I was afraid as well, and they immediately struck up a conversation with me. In stadiums, you've already got something in common (unless you're a visiting team).
The rain started to pour, and it almost felt good except for the fact that it was almost as warm as the sticky air. The announcer, with his heavy voice that sounded much more personable live, told us to seek shelter immediately. We stood in the rain while we filed out and the thunder and lightning danced around us.
"Come on, hurry up!" yelped the full grown man. The girlfriend just laughed again.
A friend of my cousin's is the banquet manager for fenway. He had a boyish face and looked like he would have enjoyed the game of golf. He had been sitting with us for a few innings before the rain delay.
We all went into the concourses where the steam of people was starting to fog up my glasses. It was ghastly hot, almost as though I was in a sauna sponsored by the Red Sox and Budweiser. I was holding a half full beer that the banquet manager had handed to me in the shuffle. I was sipping it only because it was lukewarm and that was good enough.
"Hold on, let me see about something," he disappears up a hill and then comes down and motions to us. Up the ramp was a cool glass door. It was opening to us.
There was a breeze that hit me once the door opened...air conditioning. The Crown Royale Club!
Suddenly, I had everything I could ever need right there...someone handed me a chilled Smirnoff Ice and gave me a seat near a flat screened TV that was showing NESN highlights. On the wall were pictures of the greats- Ted Williams, the dashing number nine was standing a tremendous swing. Trot Nixon was hitting the long ball above my cousin's head as he sipped his diet coke.
The game ended peacefully with some dampness. Schilling gave up a homerun to Jermaine Dye (I had a dream about it last night, the repeating kind of cliche dream you see people having in Sitcoms...Dye, Dye, Dye) but struck out a few unknowns. I got in a fight with the redheaded Irishman in front of us because I didn't like the way they booed Kevin Millar (you boo every player that has a bad game, you're going to be booing a lot of people...okay?)
I've decided to pitch a tent in the standing room only section of Fenway Park. Then, I'd really be home.