plenty of sport in boston

Hurrying to finish the last chapter of my book, I tossed the abused paperback into my bag and glanced out the window as our plane touched down into Logan International. It was 10am on a Tuesday morning. I was glad to be traveling, and not at a desk back in Washington. Without having made any previous plans, we checked into our hotel, and grabbed a map from the concierge. I couldn't help but notice on the way into the hotel how nice it was outside. Not only nice, but gusty. In my examination of the map, something stood out, the pigment of said something seemed to glow from the one-dimensional-folded brochure map. It was the Charles River and the connecting Boston Harbor making up the city's outline. Before I could form the words to what I was about to say, a smile spread across my face as I looked at my three adventure-ready friends and suggested we go sailing.



Chatting up the locals for directions to the marina. We called at least eight different boating outfits in the city before we found one that did rentals.



The name of the man in the distance is Jim. It was incumbent on me to make friends with him and gain access to one of his boats. Jim and I became fast friends. And like most sailors, Jim was a talker. We listened to some of his crazy sailing stories and about his wife that swore she loved sailing before they married, who [with bitterness in his voice] never did take a liking to the sport.

Instead of paying the 75 dollar day fee to skipper one of the Flying Scots, Jim offered to take us out on his boat for free.




Boy Scouts pays off. If any of my nephews are reading this, here's a little hint, ask your mom to help you out a little. One day I'll expect you to be my crew when I take you out sailing; so learn your knots! Sure I spent countless hours earning those merit badges; but I wasn't alone. Much to my chagrin, I give my mother most of the credit for my Boy Scout successes.



"Where everybody knows your name..." [We had to get a picture in front of the Cheers cafe.]



We're inside! From this moment on, I felt like I was on a rollercoaster. A five hour ride that I never wanted to get off.



It is difficult to imagine a place more appropriate to break in my new camera.



I take certain satisfaction from stepping into the ballpark hours before the first pitch is thrown. Everyone has a happy place. The ballpark, especially Fenway Park, is one of mine.



A Dad, a Mom, and their three daughters. Baseball in Boston runs in your blood. If only the rest of America could appreciate the game like Bostonians do. America needs to remember the history, the significance, and the message of the game. Perhaps the time is ripe for a re-awakening, a baseball revolution if you will, of America's greatest pastime.



One of the little intricacies woven into the fabric of the game we call baseball. A little boy wearing his favorite player's number on his back, innocently enjoying the "ballpark experience."



The manual scoreboard. One of Fenway's defining characteristics.



The pulchritudinous Green Monstah.



rev-er-ence
–noun
1. a feeling or attitude of deep respect tinged with awe; veneration.
2. the outward manifestation of this feeling: to pay reverence.
3. a gesture indicative of deep respect; an obeisance, bow, or curtsy.
4. the state of being revered.



I love a good hat, and I love Yawkey Way. So I unsheathed the VISA.



This photo speaks to me more than any of the day's photos. [The view of the ballpark from a left fielder's perspective.] I love the outfield. Only one position in sport rivals the sheer awe and beauty of playing the position of outfielder. The position of linebacker in American Football comes very close to delivering an equal feeling of wonder and amazement. But this is only my opinion of course.



The view from our seats behind home plate.



And to close out the day...a 'good game tap' from Emily.

After the Sox's heartbreaking loss to Toronto-down one run, bottom of the ninth, two runners on, full count, Youk at the plate...four despondent Virginians made their way back to the hotel to get a few hours of shuteye before our 6am flight the following morning. [A one hour flight, and 440 miles later, we would sneak into our offices in time for work that morning.]