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One of my favorite walks is from where I pahk my cah out in the neighborhoods of Brookline,Ma, and stroll along Beacon Street to Fenway Park to watch the boys of spring, summer, and fall, the Red Sox, play baseball. Stopping at O’Leary’s Pub for a Harp or two and conversation with Angus, Aofie, Lisa, Dave and Davey, sweet Bobby drinking Cape Codder’s, who once told me of a favorite cow he tended as as a young man on a dairy farm in New York State wih tears in his eyes, waiting out the traffic at Audubon Circle with its bird sculptures on the lamp posts before continuing on, stopping for a moment to bullshit with my scalper buddy John in the parking lot across from the park from where I join the crush of fans on Yawkey Way, its a trip I’ve made many, many times and it’s never grown old. Those walks do however, at some point during the baseball season, end.


When they do I recall the words of the late Bart Giamatti, Commissioner of Baseball, President of Yale, Red Sox fan, and a true renaissance man.


The Green Fields Of The Mind


It breaks your heart. It is designed to break your heart. The game begins in the spring, when everything else begins again, and it blossoms in the summer, filling the afternoons and evenings, and then as soon as the chill rains come, it stops and leaves you to face the fall alone. You count on it, rely on it to buffer the passage of time, to keep the memory of sunshine and high skies alive, and then just when the days are all twilight, when you need it most, it stops. Today, October 2, a Sunday of rain and broken branches and leaf-clogged drains and slick streets, it stopped, and summer was gone…



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