No. 209 – The Camera Eye

Performer: Rush

Songwriters: Geddy Lee, Alex Lifeson, Neil Peart

Original Release: Moving Pictures

Year: 1981

Definitive Version: None.

The final stop on the East Coast baseball odyssey Dave and I took in 1991 was Boston. In retrospect, it seems amazing that the schedule would align so much that you could visit four Major League teams within easy driving distance of each other. Actually, what was more amazing was that we saw only four.

We tried to make it to Philadelphia, too, but it didn’t quite work out in the schedule. Now, if we were to do it over again, we could add Washington to the Baltimore swing, too.

Anyway, Dave and I picked up John in Manhattan and headed to Dave’s old stomping grounds of Bridgeport, Conn., for lunch before arriving at Fenway on an overcast day for the day part of a day-night doubleheader. It was my first trip to the Fens, and it completed my trifecta of historical ballparks—Wrigley Field, Yankees Stadium and Fenway Park. We had time to hike around, although nothing was happening on the tarp-covered field.

Unlike previous games on the swing, as I mentioned, we weren’t able to get press passes in Boston, so we had tickets—obstructed-view seats. At least we were inside, and we could dress like fans and not working press. Better, Dave and I could openly root for the Sox—the White Sox.

Yes, Boston played our favorite A.L. team, the Chicago White Sox. Even better, Roger Clemens was scheduled to pitch—this was back when a chance to watch Clemens brought excitement and not derision—so we knew we had a chance to see something great. Little did we know.

It ended up being the best Major League game I’ve ever seen in person. It started with a slight rain delay, just enough to freeze up Clemens’ arm after his warmups, so when the game started an hour later, Clemens didn’t have his best stuff. Or maybe he was just distracted by Busty Heart—Boston’s answer to Morganna—who bounced onto the field just before the first pitch to buss Clemens.

Clemens gave up four runs in the first inning, mostly via a series of dink hits, but the BoSox roared back to take the lead. But then Boston’s bullpen gave up the booty, blowing a four-run lead. During the rally, Frank Thomas hit one of the longest home runs I’ve ever seen. It cleared the fabled Green Monster by at least 15 feet.

With the Red Sox up one run with one out to go, Robin Ventura hit his second home run of the game to tie it at 8. From there, the game settled down into a pitching duel, and the White Sox finally broke it open with two runs in—yes—the 14th inning.

Between the rain delay and the actual time of game, our Boston game took so long that fans there for the night part of the day-night doubleheader already were milling about outside the stadium. We even ran into one of Dave’s friends from his Bridgeport days. The sun was shining, and it seemed a great way to end our amazing trip.

As we hiked back to our car, we noted with some humor that on the street on which we parked a couple cars had their passenger windows broken out. We joked that it probably was Clemens taking out his frustrations from not getting the win as he walked home. The joking stopped when we saw that my car was one of those aforementioned vehicles. The back vent window on the right side had been shattered. Fudge!

For all the stuff that we had out in the open, we were fortunate that only one thing was taken. Unfortunately, it was John’s gym bag, which was full of photography equipment and all of the film he’d shot on the trip. (Because we didn’t get press passes, John took only a few lenses with him in the ballpark, not the full bag itself, as he had elsewhere.)

As you can imagine, John was beside himself. It was bad enough to lose the gear, but that was covered by insurance. The film, however, was irreplaceable. He pitched this as a working trip, and now, outside of what he shot in Boston, he had nothing to show for it.

We drove to the nearest police station to fill out the obligatory report paperwork and then headed home in a somber mood. The original plan had been to drive to Buffalo or thereabouts for the night and then on to Flint the next day. However, after the robbery, no one was interested in spending any more money.

So, being young—and dumb—we decided that with three sharing driving duties, we could make it all the way back, driving round the clock. Due to my overnight shift in Sports, I volunteered to drive the overnight shift while the other two slept. I would get my sleep beforehand, except I didn’t sleep a wink. I was fine—I was young after all. I drove us into Canada in the middle of the night, and the obligatory questions at the border woke up Dave and John only temporarily.

It felt surreal driving through Canada in the middle of the night—particularly as the sun started to light up the Western sky as we drew close to Sarnia. I can’t remember the music I had on my car stereo, but I think it was stuff that I only liked so as to not bother anyone else. (It wasn’t this song, however, although I was big into it and all things Rush at the time.) It was daylight by the time we got to the Blue Water Bridge, and Dave took it from there.

I still didn’t sleep, so I told Dave that I wasn’t going to be available to participate in the Grand Blanc softball league charade that was scheduled for that day. At first, we all decided to be no-shows, but as we got home, Dave and John changed their mind.

I wasn’t having any of it. It was ridiculous that we were being made to finish a game we already won and didn’t mean anything in the standings. I’d be at the playoff game for sure later that evening, but I was whipped after having gotten no sleep the previous night. Dave didn’t like it, but he understood.

Well, as you know, I changed my mind. After what happened in Boston, someone had to pay for my car, John’s bag and the general lack of sleep, and that someone was going to Mike’s Upper Deck …