FINALAPPROACH
It’sOnWally
-
black, blue shorts that are high on his belly and
a huge Sox cap that, in an overlooked feat of hu-
manengineering, he can removeduring stadium
renditions of “The Star-Spangled Banner” but
keep from losingwhen he trots, dances or falls
downduringgames.
SoWally’s entourage of a few Red Sox em-
ployeeschowsdown, themutemascotdoessome
Man in the IronMask–stylegesticulations todiners
andChrisgoes topay for his soupandbeverage.
That’swhen thebartender refuses to take his
cash, saying: “Wally’sgot you covered.”
Any lover of baseball, of summer, of free food
and beer — if I haven’t described you yet I’m a
little worried for your soul —may now pause
and look out the airplanewindow if feeling a bit
verklempt.
Chris wasn’t the only benefactor of surprise
generosity fromWally,who, as it turnsout, spent
weeks throwing around gifts like a drunk lottery
winner. I called the Red Sox and was patched
through toDanRea,who isoneof several people
whospeak“onbehalf”of themascot.Tocelebrate
the holiday season, Rea toldme, Wally and the
RedSoxboughtBostonians theirmorningcoffees
anddoughnutsat select locations.Wallyalsopaid
for somecommuters’ transit tickets.Hegotmany
locals out of parking tickets by bartering sacks
of toys to the usually draconian Boston parking
authority.
Since the encounter, Chris still sees Wally
wandering around the neighborhood, swagger-
ing likeVitoCorleoneonLong Island, pointingat
well-wishers.
It’swarmingup inFenway.Wally is nowback
to his day job, dancing on dugouts. And Chris
landed a great job of his own, thanks, no doubt,
to themysticqualities impartedwhen abaseball
mascot buys youa soupandabeer.
NOTTOOLONGAGO,
my buddy had a religious
baseball experience that involved a bowl of
French onion soup, a pint of Guinness, amascot
and—of course— the cityof Boston.
Though first, becausewehumans havemerci-
fully short memories and tend to forget themis-
eries inflicted on us onlymonths ago, a primer
onwinter: It’s that absurdly romanticized season
when you hack at your iced-over car windshield
before the sun’s up, and your nose hair freezes,
andyour co-workers all havepockets full of used
tissue wads and smell of cough drops and raw-
garlic-based cold remedies.
(To those readerswho live inCanadaor north
of, say, Springfield,Mo., in theU.S.: I’m sorry. Roll
up this issueand read itwhen things thawout.)
But here’s the real soul-sucking rubofwinter:
nobaseball.
Twomonthsago, pitchersandcatcherspulled
their customized Hummers into spring-training-
facility parking lots in Florida andArizona. With
the turn of April, however, exhibitiongames end
and real onesbegin. Shells from sunflower seeds
arebeingspitallover30major league infieldsand
outfields aswe speak. Umpires are rubbingballs
withmud fromsecretbanksof theDelawareRiver.
Jim Leyland is squinting. These developments
arebeing covered simultaneouslyon eight cable
sportsnetworks towhichyour spouse isgoing to
beveryangryyou subscribed.
But there was indeed once a season called
winter when the only baseball news available
—middle reliever you’ve never heard of signs
one-yeardeal formoremoney thanyou’llmake in
your life; player tobe named later traded toKan-
sasCity for ribsandbakedbeansafterMinnesota
generalmanagergetsacraving—wasconfined to
a tinyblotter in the sports pages’ nether regions,
next toads for girdles.
Now that I’ve set the dismal seasonal scene,
allowme to introduce this tale’sprotagonist.Chris
Sweeney is a journalist who has just left his full-
time gig in balmy Florida to follow his girlfriend
to Boston. It’s one of thosewalking-out-on-the-
tightropeactseverybody is inclined toperforma
few times in their lives.
Even though Chris is, likeme, a pitiable New
YorkMets fan, hehasmoved into the rabidheart
of RedSoxNation: Fenway, as theneighborhood
thatsurrounds the team’sstoriedballpark iscalled.
So Chris walks to Thornton’s Fenway Grille
(thewatering hole just down the street from his
apartment), takes a stool, orders aGuinness and
Frenchonion soup, andpondershisemployment
prospects.
But then thebar’sdoorswingsopen, andChris
suddenly is pondering farmoreenjoyable things.
Towit:Why isagiantMuppet-likecreaturewitha
RedSox jerseyandbaseball cap sittingat thebar
across fromme, studyingamenu?
Wally theGreenMonster— referred toalmost
exclusively by his first name, usually screamed
while spilling your beerwhen you spot himdanc-
ing on the dugout — is the Red Sox’s mascot.
Named in homage to Fenway’s giant left field
wall, he’s furry, greenandbulbous. Hewears eye
92
APRIL 01, 2013
AA.COM/AMERICANWAY
