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The Buddhists say, if I dare paraphrase, generalize and over-simplify, that suffering comes only from incorrect perception. It is not reality, but instead how we perceive reality, that is the true cause of pain. As a complete layman in this field, I certainly have yet to expand my understanding of the world, or myself as the case may be, to the point where I can fully exercise this concept in practice. Nevertheless, I think all of us find examples of this noble truth in different forms in our lives. Sometimes it comes in a moment of appreciating the simple beauty of a trying situation, or in the decision to let go of a long-established plan when life points you clearly elsewhere.
In endeavoring to let go of self-deception as allusively advised above, it might be tempting to merely apply the well-known adage, "Expect nothing and you will never be disappointed." The pains of life and love notwithstanding, the implication in such a life lesson is, in my view, a misguiding one. It operates on the shaky assumption that we gain more by never being disappointed than we lose by shedding our anticipation. Such an interpretation of this lesson puts at risk a closely related but nonetheless separate entity: our ideals.
It is therefore critical that we not confuse a "correct" perception of reality with one of fatalistic realism. Expectation, as applied in its harshest sense - that is, the belief that an outcome will be exactly as calculated a priori - is indeed something to be invested in sparingly. Ideals, however, are another matter. Working or even just hoping to see a reality meet its idealistic conception is essential, not only to pushing the boundaries of our world through vision, but also to developing the continued faith and idealism that drive us to better our world in the first place.
We live in the reality of our beliefs, the mental image of our world. For certain things, the ideal image that we hold of them is crucial to their preservation and, in many cases, their full appreciation. Behind the surfacial reality of such a thing, which can both disappoint and elate us as it will, exists that ideal, the very real and living spirit of it. For these things in life, that spirit is at least as important as the strict reality, if not entirely paramount.
I believe that for us, our culture, and our history, baseball is such a thing.
For over a century baseball has surprised and exhilarated and endeared our people. Its spirit - its ideal - is something that has transcended and withstood countless tests of time. Through everything from worldwide wars to sportwide scandal and corruption, the spirit of baseball has persisted. It has dodged the fallout of challenges to its existence and integrity, flowing effortlessly between past and present, from the major leagues to little league, always finding lasting love somewhere in the hearts of the American people.
I emphasize American people here not to imply that there is any shortage of love for baseball outside of North America, because there is plenty. Rather, I do so to prepare the point that our very nation, and our patriotism to it, are akin to baseball in that they, too, thrive on their ideal, their living spirit.
I am certain that I do not need to embark on an in-depth historical or political diatribe to demonstrate the trials our nation's spirit has withstood, or to enumerate the long legacy of disparities between its ideal and its reality, which have been regrettably frequent from our founding age right up through present days. However, be they shared by fellow citizens or unique to me, my frustrations with the realities of our nation only lend weight to the fact that my persistent love for it is rooted in its spirit. Like baseball, we love our nation for what it can be, for all of the times when it does move and astound us, and for that for which it stands. Like baseball, the ideal of America persists, despite the upheavals and disappointments, and keeps us endeavoring to help it survive, improve itself and be there for generations to come.
The spirit of baseball and the American spirit - in my mind, the two are forever precious and entwined, not only in their persistent ideality, but in their inextricable historical and cultural connection. "Our Game", as Walt Whitman called it and Ken Burns echoed, was born as we know it on our own soil, and has become a part of our identity as a nation. Our National Pastime is just that, a pastime, an activity for the people at the game, defined as much in the appreciation of it as in the playing. From the mid-Western descendants of the pioneers, to the widespread children of the immigrants of our fathers' and grandfathers' day, to the urban newcomers to our nation today, it is common to us. From the inner cities to the endless farmlands, it knows no bounds. From Jim Thorpe to Ted Williams to Jackie Robinson to Joe DiMaggio to Sammy Sosa, it has become, thankfully, for all of us.
What, then, is more sacred to those who love the spirits of both baseball and our nation, and who feel the innate and deep connection of the two, than the moment at the beginning of a game when we rise to our feet to sing "The Star Spangled Banner"? So moving is this unique instant when, already electrified with anticipation for the game, be it amidst tens of thousands around a sprawling pristine field or on aluminum park bleachers watching a child or sibling stand in a makeshift uniform, we pause in reverence for our country. In this moment we feel our love of our nation and our game swell in concert over the natural exhilaration of hearing and raising our voices in song.
For me, as a baseball fan, this moment is one of the heights of any game. As a musician, the idea of singing on the field and leading my fellow fans in the anthem, especially at a major league game, had long been something of which I could only have dreamt. When, through a few twists of fate, that very opportunity came my way, I was needless to say thrilled and charged with excitement.
I was also, perhaps quite understandably, filled with what one might call some very "un-Buddhist" idealistic expectation.
It all began as a simple and small thing. My father, Peter Mancuso, a SABR member and baseball historian (at least in my novice judgment), had plans to attend SABR 32 in Boston in June of 2002. Given the 550+ miles separating us on a daily basis, he thought the event might make a nice weekend trip for the two of us to catch up outside the usual buzz of holidays and major family gatherings, which had been our only chances to see each other of late. The itinerary sounded good: take in a game at the historic Fenway Park on Friday, have an opportunity to find out more about SABR and attend some events, and take some time to myself in Beantown. I accepted the invitation, and we made plans to get to Boston, he from my family's home in eastern Pennsylvania, and me from mine in Ann Arbor, Michigan.
Not long after things were set in motion, Bill Nowlin of SABR's Boston Chapter sent an alluring email down the pipeline. As part of SABR's involvement and experience at Friday's game, he had arranged with the Red Sox for the National Anthem at Fenway that night to be led by a SABR 32 attendee. He was making the submission of materials to the Red Sox himself on SABR's behalf, and was requesting audition recordings be sent to him by the first of June.
I had been an independent musician and vocalist for about seven years, but I had never performed the anthem at any game before, outside of singing along in the stands. The honor of having my first time be at a Major League Baseball game, and furthermore at Boston's legendary Fenway Park, was nearly unimaginable to me. Despite my feeling that sheer numbers would make for low odds of being selected, this opportunity was too fantastic to pass up. Amidst a hectic week at work, I found an evening to put up a microphone after hours and belt out the best audition tape I could. It was a rough live cut recorded after a long day, and I honestly didn't expect it to fly, but I figured I would at least be able to say that I tried. I sent out the tape, and life's hectic grind took back over. I didn't feel the weeks pass, and by the time I was preparing for the trip to Boston, I had assumed that my initial estimate of declination had been correct.
It was sometime in mid-June when I received email from Bill, via my father, to the contrary. He informed us that the Red Sox had liked my recording, and that he needed some information regarding my status with SABR. I had submitted my audition as a SABR 32 attendee, but with it I had also indicated that I was officially attending the conference, my first SABR event, as a guest of my father, and was not yet a member of SABR. This technicality had been Bill's concern, and we soon concluded that formalizing my connection with SABR via membership would be the most fair and appropriate course of action.
Knowing SABR membership would be something I would definitely enjoy in and of itself, this was more than agreeable to me. With the help of Bill and John Zajc at SABR's main office, I immediately put together the materials necessary to do so. Faxes back and forth and more email ensued, throughout all of which I endeavored to tell myself that things were not completely certain just yet, and I should psychologically prepare for the possibility of losing this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. My nervousness notwithstanding, all was well when the dust finally cleared, and I had received confirmations all around that everything was set. I could finally allow myself to get excited.
In my immediate family, of course, there was euphoric chaos. My mother Camille and my brother Matthew were now determined to make the voyage from home and attend the game, and the necessary travel and lodging arrangements had to be made and so forth. Again, when everything at last settled, all was well. The logistics had been worked out, and Bill had even managed to have the Red Sox provide us with four tickets in the correct location in exchange for our original pair in the SABR block. My gratitude over all of this had increased tenfold, but with it, unbeknownst to me, so had the emotional stakes.
As the last of this was falling into place, I emailed Bill with my thanks and a few final questions. I had performed at a variety of venues in my years as a performer, but never before at a place anything like a baseball field. Knowing Bill had arranged this many times before, I asked him what he knew about the technical aspects of the performance, such as pacing of the tempo, microphones and monitors, and other details of the sound system. In his reply he explained that he would happily pass my questions on to the Red Sox if need be, but he also mentioned a small particularity that caught me off guard.
"Maybe you didn't understand, though, about the singing of the Anthem," Bill kindly explained. "What will be played over the sound system is the tape which you sent in. You will actually sing live into a microphone, but that's only a backup in case the tape breaks."
As my eyes moved over the words, I physically felt my heart sink.
I could not believe it. Moreover, I started to wonder what it meant. Were all the anthems at all of the games in the majors done this way? Had it been done this way at every game I had ever seen throughout my life - Yankee Stadium - Veterans Stadium - Tiger Stadium? What about when Billy Joel sang at the opening game of the 2000 Subway Series, while my housemate, bassist and fellow Native New Yorker Markus Nee sat beside me in front of the TV as we zealously cheered him on? The idea was heartbreaking.
It did not take long for my cynical side to take hold. In the darker light of simple realism, the reasons seemed obvious. They had to eliminate variables. There were TV stations counting on set amounts of valuable commercial time. There was the expectation of the general populace, raised on spoon-fed, squeaky clean, overproduced entertainment since the dawn of the mass media. There needed to be the retention of control. Suddenly I wondered how I could have been so naive.
But I knew why I had been naive. I had been naive because this was baseball. This was different, I had thought. This was something sacred enough to transcend the laws of day to day practicality. In today's day and age, in the aftermath of one of the most devastating tragedies in our country's history, this was singing the National Anthem at a baseball game. In what time within recent decades was the idealism and integrity of our Nation and its Pastime and its Anthem needed more than now? Surely there was none, I had thought.
The philosophy is clear. I am a citizen, attending the same baseball game as my fellows, walking into the park alongside them wearing similar workaday clothing, and watching from the same grandstand, eating the same hot dogs. I rise to my feet with them when the ball is hit deep and the outfielder runs to the wall. I despairingly sigh with them as the last pitch of the inning sails over the plate and into the catcher's mitt. So then, let me stand before them as I am, and let them hear me as I am, as I perform not for them, but with them, in this nigh-unto-Holy ritual. Let me be sincere with them, singing as one of them, and if my voice slightly falters, or if I slur a word to take a breath, let them hear it. This is not an enactment, and I am not an entertainer here. I am simply an American like themselves, chosen for one brief moment to lead before sitting down beside them a moment later. Perhaps I am asked to carry out this task because I am musically well suited to it, but let that aspect remain in appropriate discretion here. Let this music dissolve away the line between performer and audience, rather than become part of the endless sea of pop culture designed to emphasize it.
This is not a contrived presentation of prefabricated illusion. This is baseball.
It seemed, however, that this philosophy sadly did not reign, at least not in the world of the Major Leagues. The people making the choices here had to think about the people bringing in the money, the "demographic majority", who I could only then suppose weren't exactly reverent baseball fans steeped in history and tradition and untainted spirit. This was, after all, reality, the real world, and the real America. This was the America weaned on MTV and Hollywood, expecting very much to be dazzled, but not necessarily moved. This was the America who spectates, not participates, except as directed, be it explicitly, or via the implicit suggestion of a perpetuity of marketing. This was the America that pays for what they're told to want, and unforgivingly rejects all else. This America was the audience as they saw it, and in the eyes of the Big Show, the rules of Show Biz must apply.
For an idealist and musician, this philosophical difference bordered on the religious. The act of giving the appearance of live performance in actual absence of such is suicidal taboo in the world of self-respecting musical artists. While thankfully not the absolute heresy of "lip-syncing" to another person's voice (as per the "Milli Vanilli" performers of years past), this plan nonetheless went against much of my nature as an independent singer/songwriter, especially one who had cut his teeth in the honest and open-hearted world of folk music. Even with all of the aforementioned emotional preparations, I had not prepared for this.
So began the pseudo-radical ventings to housemates and friends, the heated phone conversations with family members, and the soul-searching. Much to the surprise and disbelief of many, I seriously considered passing on the opportunity entirely. Despite all the investments made on the part of my family, despite the inevitable embarrassment of having to decline at such a late hour, I strongly felt that I might not want to support what I felt was a dishonest representation of something sanctified. Still crushed from having been given the realistic truth, the loss of my idealistic preconception was all that I could see.
To make matters worse, the audition tape I had submitted was something I was not fully satisfied with. I had submitted it with the belief that it was just an audition, and that it would not be presented publicly at all. If the Anthem absolutely needed to be performed their way, then I wanted to at least follow suit with a recording worthy of a pre-produced presentation. Being denied both live integrity and studio quality was surely the musically worst of both worlds. Additionally, I had, mostly for fun, added a reverberation effect to the audition audio to loosely simulate ballpark acoustics. I was concerned that, in combination with the real thing upon playback, this effect might have made the resultant sound unnaturally awkward.
As the thoughts and conversations snowballed onward, it became apparent that what I really needed to do was gather more information. After all, I really had no understanding of exactly why the Anthem was performed in this manner, only my guesses. Perhaps, I thought, this was merely the default arrangement, but other options existed. Maybe the league, for some reason, actually thought I would prefer to do it this way. I decided that I needed to go to the source, ask some questions, and not make any final decisions until I knew the specifics.
Bill Nowlin had given me the name of his contact at the Bosox, and my father, anxious to have the matter settled, helped me acquire their number. (He rattled it off so readily during the phone conversation that I started to wonder if he had the whole MLB roster in his personal address book, a scenario I could almost believe.) I made the call, and, getting a recording indicating that the rep would be out of the office for a few days, I left a message. At the same time, I took a look at the Red Sox website and managed to guess at an email address. I sent an email, thinking that perhaps it might make for faster communication. I honestly didn't know what kind of response to expect from a busy major league executive, and anticipated every kind of reply ranging from nominally helpful information right on down to "It's our way or the highway, kid." Dad had clearly reminded me that while this was a landmark event for us, this was just one of this season's eighty-someodd home games to the people running the park. I recognized this, and knew that all I could do was try and hope for the best.
To my surprise, the best was even better than I had guessed. A reply came promptly from the contact Bill had provided, Red Sox Promotions and Special Events Representative Rick Subrizio - and he couldn't have been more accommodating.
Rick opened his email explanation with a comforting fact: "Your concerns about doing the anthem pre-recorded have been echoed by other performers in the past." Rick seemed to understand my feelings all too well, and went on to list about half a dozen reasons for the policy of using pre-recorded material.
The first reason Rick enumerated was acoustics, and this was one explanation I was able to technically understand. Because of the size of the ballpark and the natural propagation time of sound, a word uttered into the microphone at one instant and emitted from the loudspeakers the next doesn't make it to the ears of the performer until as much as a half second (or sometimes even much more) later. This delay creates a distracting effect, making it very challenging for even trained performers to maintain smooth rhythm and consistent tempo. For musical shows, especially for concerts in large arenas and stadiums, complex monitoring systems on stage solve this problem by allowing the performers to hear themselves in real time. Fenway doesn't have such a system, and I could imagine that the complication of providing one would, for most people, be difficult to justify for only ninety seconds of performance.
Timing with television breaks was also one of the reasons Rick mentioned. Especially with the long acoustic delay, it's apparently very easy for a performer to slow the Anthem tempo down significantly while singing live. In addition to appearing slow to the listeners (who can only hear the performers voice post-delay via the sound system), the piece will often get extended in duration making for difficult transitions during broadcast of the game. A pre-recorded anthem guarantees that the timing of the game opening will be more predictable, facilitating the necessary television programming. While my personal views of our television culture and the commercials associated with it didn't lend much compassion to this particular reason, I could at least understand its importance to the team from a business standpoint.
Rick also listed a few reasons related to insuring the Anthem's quality and respectability. Despite its role in everyday life, the Anthem is commonly known among vocalists as a somewhat difficult song to perform, especially a cappella, mostly because of its extensive pitch range and tricky accidentals and tonicizations. The performance is also potentially affected by a human factor; for most singers, Fenway's attendance represents the largest audience for which they've ever performed. Complicated by the acoustic properties described above, the Anthem's presentation ends up being subject to a variety of challenges, the sum of which is uncomfortable to a venue trying to preserve the song's importance. In addition, insuring a reasonably traditional rendition of the Anthem through all of these variables is of great concern.
"We are a pretty traditional ballpark and team," explained Rick, "and the prerecording makes certain that the anthem is presented in a reverent way. We're not averse to people taking it out a bit, but especially in light of recent patriotism, we prefer that the versions done here remain more traditional, and the recording is a way to make sure that we know what we will get once the performer goes out to sing."
Rick also individually specified a related reason that he described only as "The 'Roseanne Barr' situation."
This group of reasons, while somewhat contrary to my musical ideals, were at least in line with my philosophies about the Anthem itself. I did still feel that it was unfortunate that, for whatever reasons, the variables here apparently could not be trusted to the performer's skill, professionalism and respect for their task, but I could understand the root of the desire to minimize any risk. In the end, it was about respect for the Anthem, and what it means to the fans. It was a different approach than the one I would take, but the end goal was the same.
It was in this thought that I found the peace and clarity I sought. Thankfully for all of us, it was clear that Rick Subrizio was a genuine baseball fan.
On top of all of this, Rick was also perfectly amiable to me providing a better recording, if I wished to, and even offered me the resources of Fenway's in-house studio, should I be unable to line things up in time back home.
With my view on things refreshed by Rick's attentive and friendly assistance, I felt informed and emotionally positive enough about things to acquiesce to the necessities of the situation. I confirmed with my family, much to their relief, that I would in fact be performing the Anthem at Fenway. I was able to schedule a recording session with my employer, Robert Martens, at our company's primary studio, Solid Sound. The session went well, and with minimal effort we were able to get a clean, reverb-free recording of the Anthem with which I was happy, and that fell within the ninety-second duration limit prescribed by the Bosox. By the time all this had been finally handled, the weekend was upon us, and it was time to make the journey.
On Thursday afternoon, the 27th of June, CDs, luggage and SABR literature well-packed, my girlfriend Kim Walbridge dropped me off at Detroit Metro Airport at about 3:30 PM. I eagerly strode in to immediately find my flight to Boston cancelled.
Puzzled, I transitioned rapidly from excited to slightly panicked. I looked at the departure list curiously; every flight into Boston, New York, Newark, Philadelphia, Pittsburg, Baltimore, Washington, White Plains... all cancelled. After joining the innumerable ranks of lost passengers in the roughly three-hour line to see one of the two agents dispatched to assist us, I was informed that a major storm system had taken out the early evening's flights into the entire region, and that I had been booked on a replacement the following morning. Unsuccessful in contacting anyone at home to pick me up, I decided to hold off on the livery option and kill some time by watching the surrealistically quiet eastern airfield, and then by making some long-shot phone calls.
Almost as if it had all been serendipity, I got lucky. The agent at the ticket counter had been unable to locate any available flights into the region, but the agent I finally reached via phone found a direct flight into Providence, Rhode Island, an alternate destination I had not considered. A quick call to Hertz verified the affordability of a one-way rental car between the two locations, and I at last hung up the phone with about a half-hour to make my new flight. Off I was.
My next challenge was encountered at security. Having managed to avoid flying since September 11, I had packed my one carry-on bag in the usual manner, filling the main compartment with clothing and such, and ignoring the outer compartments, which I always left packed with a collection of small items I use during travel. I had forgotten, however, that within that collection was a four-finger lockblade pocket knife, of perfectly (formerly) legal length, with which I had always traveled since my Scouting days. After being staunchly informed that I had, albeit unwittingly, committed an arrestable offense, I convinced security that it had been an oversight, and they reluctantly decided not to confiscate my heirloom and allowed me to check it with my bag. Now, carrying only what I had in my pockets, I ran full-tilt and non-stop to my distant gate, suddenly reminded of my currently poor cardiovascular condition.
The flight was comprised mostly of resigningly reading the only magazine available, within which I fortunately stumbled upon an interesting piece about an old collectible baseball card game unearthed by the author in his attic. After briefly chatting with a friendly woodturner from England (who had been snoring for most of the trip), I silently celebrated as we touched down in Providence. I retrieved my bag and acquired my rental car and directions, and hit the road for Boston. The drive went smoothly except for a midnight traffic jam on the downtown freeway, during which I wondered what else would go wrong. At long last I arrived at the Park Plaza Hotel, greeted my father, and finally, at about 1 AM, laid down to sleep with a feeling of exhausted success.
The next day, while Dad attended a series of conference events, I had one last task to complete: I needed to deliver the my updated CD to Fenway so that it could be reviewed and prepared for gametime. After a leisurely morning of recuperation and playing phone tag with Rick Subrizio, I set out on foot to make the delivery.
The day was intensely sunny and humid, and I tried to take in the sights and sounds of Boston's Back Bay while still keeping up the pace. I walked along Newbury Street, watching pedestrians bustle in and out of the brownstone-style shops and restaurants. I emerged onto Massachusetts Avenue, and followed the directions I'd gotten from a friendly UPS driver onto Ipswitch Street toward the Park. As I sampled the strange blend of quaint, urban and ex-industrial neighborhoods along my route, I thought on Boston. It had been quite awhile, maybe nearly fifteen years, since I had been there, and memories were dim. Such a rich city, I thought, somehow more restful than the powerfully charged streets of my birthplace, New York; rigid and municipal like Washington, but concealing a twist, a defiant ancient hum of revolutionary spirit; dense and walkable, unlike the cities of the mid-West and beyond, and well-aged with history.
I turned a corner, and history stared me right in the face. There, in the middle of it all, stood the almost mythical Fenway Park, a weathered brick fortress casting its spires of lightwork and netting into the afternoon sky. It wasn't some huge contrived artificial thing, buffered by parking lots and sterile surroundings. It was rough and real, rooted deep in the past, but alive, like an old and massive tree trunk still sprouting fresh leaves sunward, simultaneously epic and thriving. It spoke for the city, as part of it, almost pulling the surroundings into it with its character, wholly connected.
I approached it and blindly walked its perimeter, feeling like a wandering knight coming upon a sleeping keep well before its time of open invitation, seeking the one gate that would grant me passage.
I entered already worn, sweating from the heat. The representative at the door greeted me with an assuring smile, and directed me upstairs. The Red Sox offices were slick and modern, deceptively nestled in the Yawkee and Brookline corner of the edifice. Rick, as he had warned, was not around, and so I left my materials with the receptionist as he had instructed. In between the nearly two dozen phone calls she fielded in the few minutes I was there, I asked for a pen and paper. I left the CD, along with a thankful note to Rick, complete with the location of the backup copy I had had my housemate Dave Morris place on the internet the night before - just in case.
Grabbing a cold drink at a local grocery mart, I made the journey back, taking the more cosmopolitan route, direct down Boylston, past the city sights. I nodded to the enviable students at Berklee; popped in with an impromptu greeting to the folks at WBCN radio (as I just happened to be wearing a T-shirt from WCBN, Ann Arbor's university station); made note of the convention center, public library, amphibious vehicle tour booths and homey-looking diner advertising authentic Italian food; peoplewatched my way through the Trinity Church park; and headed back along the street to the hotel.
After regrouping and making the various preparations, including changing into my virgin SABR 32 T-shirt, the time came. Upon my recounting the deceptively long walk I'd had, my family decided a taxi ride would be preferable. The driver dropped us on Brookline, and we followed the stream of people into the heart of the pre-game festivities on Yawkee Way. The sports shops were open, the sausages were hot, and Bosox fans buzzed about the gates excitedly. In the middle of the street, a loose crowd gathered to watch the live pre-game WEEI radio broadcast through a window that overlooked the scene. My father and brother purchased some dinner from the vendor outside our gate, and I donned my brand new Red Sox cap, a gift from Dad, and the first fitted baseball cap I'd ever owned. At the time and place of rendezvous Rick had specified, we passed into the high brick walls and waited.
Rick Subrizio was even nicer in person than he had already been via email and phone. He was a tall, lean, youthful gentleman in a sharp black suit, but with an air of relaxed informality that was welcome, given my increasingly jittery nerves. He guided us into the Park, and we emerged into the grandstand behind home plate from a short stairwell. Rick pointed up into the crowd, indicating the location of our new tickets, and my parents and brother headed up to the seats. With the ease of someone who had done this countless times before, he then led me down the aisle to a gate in the fence just to the right of the cage. He opened it, and gestured, and I stepped out onto the field at Fenway Park.
I purposefully raised my eyes slowly, trying to take in every blade of grass between the plate and the Green Monster. I looked out over the outfield at the bright sky and the scoreboard and the crowd. With a smile I gazed at the huge American Flag raised triumphantly over the bleachers. I breathed the air consciously, trying to soak in every shred of energy the place and time had to offer. I knew the next few minutes would fly by.
I moved along the wall to the center of the cage, right behind the plate, as directed. Rick and I chatted a bit as we waited, and I took my microcassette recorder from my pocket and tested it for the third time. He was a Boston native, and a Bosox fan all of his life. I offered my assumption that he therefore must really love his job, and he confirmed it with a smile. Handling the Anthem and color guard at the games was actually only a small portion of his responsibilities, he had said, and the hours required were long, but the tasks were enjoyable, and it was a great place to work.
Amen to that, I thought, and as the lineup started to come out over the loudspeakers, I looked out again over the Park. Ruth played here, I nearly mumbled aloud to myself, even before he built the mighty House back home. Nearly a century of baseball, and some of its greatest moments, had happened here. There had been agony, too, I recalled, even in my own lifetime, and I darkly cast my mind back to the first time I became a Bosox fan, back in Junior High School, when the Mets stole the 1986 World Series. I was certainly both a Yankee fan and a Sox fan that week; so much for the infamous rivalry.
Rick mentioned a few last items, and my mind returned to the task at hand. I had asked earlier about not having the microphone on the field at all, my last-ditch attempt for the elimination of deception, and he reminded me that it was needed as a backup, so I had to use it. He also gave a few pointers, like starting with my head down so as to hide any misalignment between me and the very start of the recording. He indicated when to walk out, and, with my tape recorder already running, I took the field. I stood at the microphone facing the grandstand, the Flag now incorrectly behind me, and sighed, reminding myself that this was the Big Show, after all.
I listened as they announced the Anthem and introduced me over the loudspeakers, and, with my hat over my heart and my head down, I took a breath and waited for the first note.
When it came, I started singing along as powerfully as I could. I felt at least my microcassette should hear more of me than of the recording that was blasted out across the Park. I wanted the people in the front rows to hear me, or maybe even the players in the dugouts. Someone, dammit, is going to hear this thing live, I thought, at least insofar as I can muster. I sang my heart out, trying to stay in the present, but there was, admittedly, still some anger in my voice. I had even premeditated the idea of blowing their cover, maybe stepping away from the microphone for the last line, exposing the truth to the fans over "the home of the Brave." As the words rolled by, however, I found myself needing to focus on staying in sync with the recording. It was very unnatural and somewhat difficult at points, and I tried to shake off the feeling that everyone could tell what was really going on.
As the ninety seconds drew to a close, the crowd started to roar. By the time the last two lines were upon me, there was no more room for regretful feelings. I raised my head up as the ritardando began, and my eyes found the Flag, waving regally "o'er the land of the free" from a pole high atop the press boxes and windows above the grandstand. As my last breath gave way to the din of thirty-three thousand people, I couldn't help but be elated. Whether they were cheering for a live performance, a recorded one, the game, or for our Country didn't matter anymore. I had done what I had come to do as best as I could do it, and with a sincerely grateful wave to the crowd and nod to Rick, I put on my Bosox cap and walked back to the gate. The only thought on my mind was pure, simple and entirely unspoiled: play ball!
Making my way up the stairs to my seat was like crossfading between two worlds. Just inside the gate, Rick congratulated me, and fans rose to shake my hand and offer kind words, and I started to wonder if maybe it did truly appear live to them. As I ascended, the handshakes turned to waves and the waves to nods, and by the time I neared my family's row, Rick had vanished, I was just another gamegoer amidst my fellows shuffling into our seats. With a feeling of relief I made for my spot, still feeling unsure about how it must have looked.
The folks directly around my parents, of course, had already doubtless been notified that it was me who had performed. They were graciously congratulatory as well, and quick conversations rose up here and there as I settled in, the last of which was with the gentleman to my right, whose name I may never have gotten.
"So how does that work?", I think he finally asked, "Is it pre-recorded?"
"Yeah," I nodded with a surrendering smirk, "that's how they have to do it."
He nodded back, explaining he'd figured it had to be, given the magnitude of the whole thing.
Ah, sweet catharsis. An opportunity for honesty, and an understanding soul upon which it was well received. We both didn't want it to be that way, but that was how it was, the reality of the thing.
Then, as an afterthought, he added something akin to, "Well, what do you expect after that whole Roseanne Barr thing?"
I laughed out loud. What do we expect, indeed?
I spent the rest of the game reveling in the Park and the atmosphere, letting my mind unravel. I marveled at the sheer number of people there, an impressive turnout, especially relative to the largely empty CoMerica Park I had recently visited back home. I cheered hard for the Bosox, and felt the stabbing disappointment when, after such a low scoring game, Atlanta took a hard lead so close to the end. I watched the grandstand fans loyally pass hot dogs and large bills up and down the long rows as the concessions staff made their rounds. Good, I smiled to myself, here is proof that there is still plenty of honor left in the game.
After the 2-4 loss, we leisurely took the walk back to the hotel, retracing my return trip down Boylston, this time by night. During the walk, a handful of strangers afoot in the city stopped to ask us about the outcome of the game. One white-haired gentlemen groaned when he heard our report, and thanked us, moving along and shaking his head. My father couldn't help but smile, remarking that one could easily tell that this was "a great town for baseball."
Behind us, Fenway Park agreed, now eclipsed by the synthetic horizon, slowly returning to its palatial sleep and its nonagenarian dreams.
Late that night I sat at the desk in our hotel room and took a few moments to notate my thoughts. Recalling the relieving feeling of having shared my secret with my neighbor at the Park, I pondered upon my plan to make the issue central to my contribution to The Fenway Project. Perhaps many SABR members already knew the facts of the situation, or at least assumed something similar, but it needed to be brought to indisputable light. Bill Nowlin's bold initiative to capture so many personal accounts of a single game seemed a relevant venue, and the readers thereof an important community with whom to share my concerns. Certainly there would be others who felt as I did, and just maybe, over the years to come, things could change. In the idealist's reality, hope springs eternal.
As I wrote, I thought, too, on Boston. "It's a town I always liked," I wrote, "but never really had more than a cursory opportunity to connect with... until now, perhaps. I'm sure that while I still feel very much a visitor here, my experience tonight will bring me closer to a real link... and when I was on my feet in the bottom of the ninth hoping we'd gain back the game as the batters cracked the ball and ran for first, for at least one moment... I felt like I'd been born here."
The remainder of the weekend was spent enjoying time with my family, and exploring the community at the conference. Every event I attended or person with whom I shared ideas made me more pleased with my new official status as a SABR member. It was very truthfully an honor to have represented the organization at Fenway, a special initiation for which I will always be grateful. Several people thanked me for my work over the following days, and with each I felt my sentiments reinforced. As someone who had at first felt a bit out of place, I was thankful to be welcomed so warmly by so many brilliant and talented people, all brought together by a shared love of our American game. It is to this fellowship that I offer this contribution, hoping that my amateurish verbosity will be tolerated, if not outright embraced, by a colleagueship enamored with the importance of documentation, both public and personal.
"What are we, after all, but time incarnate, experience concentrated for a moment, a tiny and temporary fragment of Everything sliced off to peer at itself from a direction never seen before and carry its study home?" My journal captured my reflections over ginger ale and pretzels on Northwest flight 393 to Detroit Metro. "We are that, or nothing at all."
And what are the time-stained bricks of the towering walls of Fenway Park, and its aching seats worn and reworn by five generations of the seventh inning stretch, and the deep earth beneath its baselines consecrated by summer upon summer of pounding hits and steals and slides, and its cold steel housing and concrete foundations still invisibly rattling with the residual power and sound of hundreds of thousands of unrepeatable rushes of emotion, and the lifetime of voices that have called out over its green enclosure with hearts covered and eyes raised to the stars and stripes?
What are all of these things but dust called together for a cosmic instant and given life with the divine breath of human memory?
In strict reality they may be nothing. But in the reality in which we each truly live, in the world of our perception, they are a gift from those who have come before us, a link to an ideal that we must not forget.
Long live the Spirit of Baseball.
(c)2002 Joseph Mancuso. All rights reserved.
Last modified: 30 August 2003 (reformatted)