It is a step back in time to when baseball was king. You can easily picture Teddy Ballgame or the Babe steppin up to the plate, and little Irish immigrant kids trying to sneak in the gates.

The tour is well worth the time and money. I did it at 3 pm though. Do an earlier one and you supposedly go on the field and in the dugouts. By late afternoon players had already started to warm-up so we didn't have that luxury.

I sat in Field Box 53 which is directly behind the opposing team's on deck circle. Players on deck gave a bunch of balls to the kids in my section. Those are great seats that I'd highly recommend.

Clay Buchholz pitched a brilliant 4 hit shutout against my O's. That was ok though. I still had a grand time. I sported a classic Orioles cap and contrary to the reputation found the Boston sports fans to be very cordial, and quite knowledgable.

I must admit I got choked up a time or two wishing I could have brought my dad to Fenway Park. He was a huge baseball fan and Fenway is like baseball heaven. You and your grandfather are really going to have a special day. 

If I am ever back in New England in the summer, I can't wait to go back.

Thanks for that.  I'm glad you had a great time. 

I've been feeling like a kid again lately.  Preoccupied, not with hearing and briefing deadlines or the yard work piling up at two houses or the other countless obligations of adulthood, but with Fenway Park, with small town New England.  With the things that preoccupy all lucky boys - with fishing and baseball and grampas.

After splurging for the best seats in the house and securing a limo to take us from Attleboro into Boston, I let me grandfather know of the plans last week.  He emailed me back and said he could barely sleep thinking about it. This from a man who has followed the Sox with his whole heart for years, fought in two wars, recently lost his soulmate of 60 years, and is the epitome of a stoic New Englander.  Except, as life has gone, when it comes to his first grandchild.  Other than me and my two brothers, there is no long list of grandkids; we are a small family on the Morel side.  Every time I see him, he cries.  And when I leave....

Yesterday morning, I got an email from his pastor.  She is my eyes and ears up there and keeps me up to date on how he is doing.  A routine visit to the cardiologist ended with him at the ER, first at the hospital in Attleboro and then, at Beth Isreal in Boston.  When I heard they had to send him to Boston, I clutched.  I learned his right foot, his old nemesis, the foot that has undergone surgeries time and again, was very bad.  Nueropathy masks the pain, so when the once and never healed wound slips like a thief back into his life, he often doesn't even know it.  Things have become touch and go with that wound over the years.   Yet, he is otherwise in great shape.    I find out they are considering surgery which means the bone.  And more.  There is always more when you are 93.  Then, the doctors think he might just somehow respond to the antibiotics.....

So, I think, the tenor of the trip has changed.  I can be at the hospital with him.  Handle whatever he needs for a few days.  Just get some more time.  

I'll eat the tickets.  Somebody will get a very nice night and a windfall.  It wasn't in the cards.

An hour ago my Mom calls with news.  It's good.  Overnight, the medicine did what I prayed it would do.  He's back at home, discharged, feeling good.   Then I see your post and start dreaming again....

Adults are not supposed to vaccilate back and forth, excited one minute, worried the next, pushed around by each hour's bit of news like the wind pushes a scrap of paper up and down an alley.  And they are not supposed to let dreams of superficial things, of green infield grass and century old grandstands, intrude on thoughts of what really matters in life - a laugh, a hug, time itself.  Just a little more time.

Alas, kids are not adults.  Kids want all good things and they strive for all of them at once, without concern for the odds.  Every part of me wants every part of this trip.  I want the hugs and I want the smaller things that don't matter as much too.  I want to take him to Fenway. I want to sit next to him, shoulder to shoulder.  Next to my grampa at the ballgame.  I am still dreaming of splitting a Sam Adams, of hugging after Papi hits a walk-off home run.  Of singing Sweet Caroline with him while we both try not to choke up.

But dear Lord, know this.  If we can't make it to the game, I will be happy. Oh, so happy, with just a little more time.