Thursday, June 30, 2011

The Miracle of Yawkey Way: Father's Day Eve

Fenway Cathedral at Dusk


In a cartoon called “Non Sequiter” a New Englander is sitting at his seat at his local diner and notices a sign that reads “ Thank you for Not Talking about Religion.” The customer asks the waitress

“Whoa , what’s this all about Flo?”

She says

“I just want to prevent auguments breakin out in heah.”

The customer protests

“Well that’s trampling on my rights!”

The waitress puzzled

“Since when have you been…”

She catches herself mid sentence and says

“Oh” and she continues

“Baseball isn’t a religion, Eddie!”

The customer screams out in protest




Pompous prognosticators are paid to predict precipitation possibilities. Passionate prayer filled petitioners plead for picture perfect serene skies. Prediction versus hope.  Dreams of fields filled with the spirits of Williams and Yaz consume the gathering pilgrims parading through passageways of the sacred sanctuary.  The explosive torrent that suddenly washed away the throngs celebrating the awarding of Stanley’s Cup from another season did not wash away the spirit of the anticipated evening-time ecclesiastical celebration.


The grace of Kenmore’s tri-color trimark sits atop a short distance from the green monster, quiet vigilant paladin of the trio ward-robed in their allegiant attire maintaining their confident expectancy as they pass through these welcoming gates of paradise. The fears that the diabolical meteorologists may have been accurate suddenly succumb to amnesia. Warm mother sun seems to wind-wipe away the collection of ominous cumulous puffs. All that remains on the great canopy are white streaks along the virgin blue canvas creating a gentle glow of orange-red on the holy horizon as mother sun bids her farewell.   


The pilgrim father witnesses this grace with pious humility wondering when will he ever learn and why worry found a place in his heart. Safe at home, his blood, the divine gifts, the miracles of their existence join him in the jubilee of their mutual love and the love for their team.


This trinity raise cold ones in sacramental salute while the angelic choir proclaim… ”So good, so good….”

The Trio at Home (plate)



    “In my beginning is my end…
    Home is where one starts from…
    In my end is my beginning.”
    (T. S. Eliot, “East Coker”)


“ is about coming home. The whole point of the game is to finish where you begin – home plate – and once you are home you are finally safe.”

-       Crossing Home, James Penrice









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