There are places in the world that have a certain indefinable magic about them: my favorite local pizza place, the Alice in Wonderland statue in Central Park, my grandparents' basement, the Museum of Natural History, my bed at home. For me, these places have warmth, not just nostalgia, comfort or familiarity. You love them and they truly love you back.
As soon as I walked up the steps at the Kenmore T stop, I knew that even as a Yankee fan, I was about to fall in love with Fenway. When I stepped onto the stadium grounds for the first time, I couldn't help but feel the magic of the country's oldest ballpark.
Sure, it doesn't mean a lot to me personally. I pronounce "chowdah" with the blasphemous "r." I've never parked my car in Harvard Yard or, for that matter, given Marky Mark a quarter. I'm not a Boston native who has been to more games than I can count. I didn't go through the lows of Buckner and Yawkey or the highs of Big Papi and Manny being Manny.
No, I come from a long line of Yankee-loving New Yorkers and was raised to hate the Red Sox and all they represent. I am a Yankee fan who lived through the glory days of the '90s and is nauseatingly aware of the unrivaled success and history of my franchise. I hate the Sox!
But as I walked around during batting practice with a "future Ms. Jeter" sign on my back, none of that mattered. For these couple hours, the rivalry meant nothing. All I felt was pride to be a die-hard fan of the national pastime. I felt all 96 years of it. I could feel it in the fans, the players, the employees and the walls.
The ballpark incorporates a city, a time, a people and a way of life into a building. The outside walls look like the setting for a 1920s film noir chase scene. You could picture Al Capone negotiating bathtub gin deals under the awnings. You can imagine Roy Hobbs playing in this ballpark and shattering the lights when he hits his mammoth homer. When you watch a game at Fenway, the days when Babe Ruth, Ty Cobb and Ted Williams took the field just don't seem as far away.
In the midst of the steroid era, Fenway is a haven from the bulls--t. It's like your local diner. Every bite tastes good because 96 years worth of burgers have been cooked on the grill. The place is sort of falling apart, everybody knows each other - and that's the way everyone likes it. Newcomers are welcome but must respect and understand the way things are done. You don't go there just for a meal. You go to be part of a community. You go to be part of something more.
I couldn't stop talking about how great this ballpark was while I was at the game. I was like a 13-year-old boy who just discovered porn. "This thing has been around this whole time and it took me this long to find it!"
Still, I love Yankee Stadium, too. The tradition and history of the House that Ruth Built is staggering. But I'm looking forward to the new stadium. It's going to be incredible, and it won't change anything about the aura around the Yankees.
With that said, Fenway is different. Without Fenway, you lose what makes a Yankee-loving 18-year-old fall in love with a culture he is supposed to despise. You lose the magic of baseball in Beantown. For baseball's sake, for the city's sake and for my sake, that ballpark should be a part of the game forever.
Gideon Jacobs is a freshman who has not yet declared a major. He can be reached at Gideon.Jacobs@tufts.edu.
