Our Peripatetic Path To Fenway

To dream...

....the Impossible Dream

Fenway Park, Thursday April 24, 2026. Red Sox vs. New York Yankees. We are there.

The Red Sox are scuffling along, well below .500. These dreaded Yankees are not only leading the American League East Division, they have also already won the first two games of this three- game series. No matter. This rivalry stays heated, more so than any other in baseball. It burns hotter even than Cubs- Cardinals. For many in attendance this night, the rivalry itself is the main draw.

For us, though, tonight's Red Sox opponent is a mere happy coincidence. Our visit to MLB's oldest park was built on a whim, and this opportunity happened to fall on the only day suitable for us to attend. In fact, our group's trip northward from Georgia had itself begun on an impulse. An earlier journey, in late October 2025, had taken me to western Massachusetts for my niece Molly's wedding. The drive up to Turner's Falls from the airport included a brief stop at a local burger bar just outside Springfield. On the counter next to the cash register sat a pile of old baseball cards, face down. They were giveaways, old cards that had become discards.

"Take one", said the clerk when she saw me eyeing the pile. "They're free. See who you get."

I did so, flipping it over to reveal a well- worn Carl Yastrzemski card from the mid-70's. One glance at his picture brought quick memories of the 1967 season of The Impossible Dream. Yaz' Red Sox stunned the baseball world that year by overcoming 100-1 odds to win the American League pennant. They did so in miraculous and dramatic fashion, before falling to St. Louis in the World Series in seven games.

That random baseball card pull in turn prompted a text message to an old friend—another lifelong baseball fan. Like me, Steve had been a New Englander for short spell during his earliest years of baseball fandom. As such, we had joined our siblings and other kids in our neighborhood to wallow in the glory of that '67 Red Sox season. Our home at that time was the north central Connecticut hamlet of Simsbury, firmly in the geographical realm of longstanding fealty to the Red Sox.

I sent Steve a quick message that this seemingly random card pull held a higher significance. It was actually a sign – a koan of sorts --that we needed to take a return trip from our hometown of Atlanta back to our old Connecticut neighborhood come springtime of 2026 . For it was there that our love of baseball had been burnished and built tall, owing in large part to our own creation- an old neighborhood baseball field , an actual sandlot where we had spent countless long summer days in the late 60's playing the world's best game.

With typical insight and intuition , Steve was fully on board. He suggested a tentative date in late April for our visit, chosen to coincide with Opening Day of Simsbury Little League– the same leagues we had played in as kids some 57 years earlier. The current crop of young Simsbury baseballers were all set to open play for their league's 75th year. We must go.

And then, what's this? The Red Sox happen to be at home the night preceding Opening Day for Simsbury Little League? Only a two hour drive from Simsbury? And it's Red Sox vs Yankees? Done.

We gathered other family members who could join the pilgrimage- my brother Cody and his wife Wendy, and Steve's brother Doug. We found a flight from Atlanta to Boston with a Thursday 3pm arrival time. It seemed a comfortable plan for the 6pm first pitch, including the scenic half- mile walk from our host hotel. During the stroll over to Fenway, Steve and I worked together to name Boston's starting lineup from the magical 1967 season. Yaz, of course, was in left field . Reggie Smith played center. Rico Petrocelli was the shortstop and Joe Foy played third. We were unsure of the catcher's name. The Boomer, George Scott, was at first base, with Jim Lonborg on the mound. Slowly these dusty memories came forth– from 59 years earlier– of the year that the Impossible Dream came true.

It had been almost three decades since I had last visited Fenway. In that time, of course, the Red Sox had not merely broken the curse of the Bambino, they had virtually dissolved it, capturing World Series wins four times- in 2004, 2007, 2013 and 2018.

And the park itself had evolved. Not fully modernized, thankfully. But it had been renovated, now slightly larger here, slightly shrunken there, while still holding close the charm that only true history can impart. Giant video boards installed in the outfield successfully added modern functionality o the longstanding structure.

We made our way past Lansdowne Street. Just seeing the street sign brought back the voices of Sox announcers Ned Martin and Mel Parnell describing the likely landing spot of another homer to left by the home team back in 1967. " All the way to Lansdowne!", was the common call.

Along the way, high- energy fans surveyed and sampled the food, the drink and the souvenirs. From here we could see the access to the upper reaches of the Park itself- from seats on top of the Green Monster in left field to the high-rising Pavilion in right.

We doubled back around to the Brookline Street access, enjoying the happy vibe, weaving our way down to Jersey Street ( nee Yawkey Way). From there we entered the stadium and made our way in. The first sighting of the glorious field of play brought to mind this passage from Roger Angell's salute to Fenway from that magic year of 1967:

"...pushed and jammed, laughing at the crush, through the turnstiles, into the damp gloom under the stands, and out at last into that first electric glimpse of green outfield and white bases– this is the way baseball is remembered....and the way it truly was, for once, in the summer of the Red Sox."

Roger Angell -The New Yorker

1967

We claimed our seats, choice and well- located in the loge level in row JJ , providing an excellent and expansive view of the field from behind home plate. I was immediately reminded of the enchanting low slung design of this lower bowl section of Fenway, which produces the pleasing effect of bringing the fans even closer to the action. It's one of many Fenway features that could reasonably e made mandatory for all stadium design.

Pregame festivities featured a stirring version of the national anthem performed by the Tanglewood Festival Chorus, affiliated with the Boston Symphony Orchestra.

The weather was near perfect at first pitch, though vernal New England breezes cooled us quickly at sunset. Chowder weather.

Unfortunately for the home crowd, the Red Sox bats stayed cool too. On this night, Yanks' ace pitcher Cam Schlittler would continue his early season excellence, holding Boston to a single run over eight innings. Red Sox starter Payton Tolle was nearly as effective, but the Boston bullpen yielded three runs in the seventh, paving the way to a 4- 2 New York win. Disappointing for the locals, sure, but there were plenty of joyous Yankees' fans present, perhaps the loudest of whom were the two situated ( as opposed to seated) just a few rows forward from us. They enjoyed the beer, and the score, and certainly the spirited chatter with neighboring Sox fans. Their declarations were not always squeaky clean, and certainly did not conform to the overly-hopeful Red Sox "code of conduct " posted around the park. But their passion was undeniably impressive.

They did well with those first two commandments, but compliance dropped off sharply from there. And the vested ballpark enforcers were feeble and few. So the boisterous behavior was accepted as part of the show.

Thus it was a good timing for a casual walkabout of the stadium, to yield a better grasp of the ballpark itself and all the goodies therein. I had already enjoyed a cup of the warm and delicious chowder, so I had the advantage of food shopping sans hunger. At Fenway, the chowder guy combs through the stands just like the hot dog crew, so that portion of my progressive dinner was easy to enjoy- and cheap, too, thanks to my generous brother and sister- in- law.

The broader food menu from one of the many concession stands along the concourse gave me pause.

The prices were steep. I wasn't bold enough to go in for the mysterious sounding Mastercard meal deal, nor hungry enough to justify the Lobstah poutine.

A Fenway Frank was pricey at $ 6.50, but it fit the moment and the budget. I gave it a B+, noting the reliable appeal of abundant mustard on a ballpark dog.

A souvenir shop likewise seemed a bit expensive. A young lady in front of me did not flinch when told that the navy blue hoodie on display was $225- but she also did not buy.

I dropped $15 for the single cheapest keepsake I could find- a humble refrigerator magnet. Lame, yes. But why not, I thought. At least I'll see it at home each time I go to the fridge for a beer that doesn't cost 12 bucks.

From there I made my way up to the right field Pavilion, climbing the " Stairway to Heaven". This area is another of several features at Fenway that is "new" since my last visit. Originally named the Budweiser Roof Deck, it became the Sam Deck in 2018, recognizing Samuel Adams as the official beer of the Red Sox.

That renovation cost a couple hundred seats, and more importantly, added some high- top tables and a few group tables to encourage more beer- drinking...and maybe more baseball- watching.

My time spent up there into the eighth inning evidenced a big and lively crowd , most of whom were busy socializing, sending only occasional glances toward the ballfield . For these youngish patrons , the baseball piece of a visit to Fenway was a bit of a sideshow. Their attention grew more focused when Neil Diamond's pipes brought "Sweet Caroline " to life for the eighth inning. This tradition is pure Boston, harkening back to 2002 when their then audio director played it in honor of a friend's newborn daughter. It caught on, to put it mildly, and grew greater in significance when Neil Diamond showed up in person on April 20, 2013 to sing it live at the first game following the Boston marathon bombing .

The view from right field also afforded a good glimpse of the Pesky Pole, the landmark field feature nicknamed for the weird- but -charming Right Field foul pole which is only 302 feet from home plate. The pole itself is standard, but its location is the closest by far of any similar field feature in the majors. (Which reminds us of the quirkiness of baseball– the fields of play are not standardized from city to city). By legend , this short porch supported some cheap home runs by Red Sox player Johnny Pesky back in the 40's . The Red Sox codified that history by formally dedicating the pole to his name several years ago.

Meandering back around to the left field line, I fixed my gaze upon the hallowed Green Monster, the 37 foot high wall in left that again,is without equal in Major League baseball. Exactly zero casual visitors are allowed into the special seating added thereupon several years back– and this was one park rule that was enforced.

By comparison, the Boston Single A affiliate in Greenville, South Carolina has a similar set up, which I have seen and sampled in person. In contrast to Boston, at Greenville's Fluor Field, a replica of Fenway, you can garner a photo op from atop their Green Monster. Here is mine, from a few years ago, ​ posted here merely to simulate ( but NOT replicate ) the same area at Fenway.

Making my way back to rejoin my seatmates behind home plate, I noted several adult Boston fans wearing jerseys with their heroes' names on the back. I engaged these superfans in light conversation to see who would stay in character. Among the fans I talked with on this visit, we batted about .500 .

One guy, wearing Ortiz, told me he was definitely planning a comeback. Another fan who was Yaz said flat out that there would never be another year like 1967. And a Curt Shilling wannabe affirmed that his storied foot injury was finally all healed up. All in good fun of course , though I purposely avoided the Yankees fans as the boisterous crowd slowly drained from Fenway. In spite of the loss, the fans seemed in high spirits, reminding us again that the ballpark experience itself is the essence of any visit to Fenway.

Two days after this game, the Red Sox fired their manager Alex Cora. That's a rash move for such a tiny piece of the 2026 season- only 27 games into a 162 game schedule. A decision so early in the year that leaves all the hope and faith from Spring training just a month earlier in Fort Myers off in a ditch somewhere. After all, Cora was at the helm the last time the Red Sox won it all in 2018. He's been the man in charge for years.

Only time will tell whether tossing out the manager will improve team performance. The same move worked well for Boston back in '67 when first-year skipper Dick Williams won that American League pennant. Coincidentally, the 1967 Red Sox were also below .500 at the 27 game mark in their miracle year.

And of course we have no idea about any administrative aspects which could have played a part in such a significant personnel change. Maybe it's a modified version of an old story regarding Casey Stengel, then managing the Mets. When Casey made known his plan to replace his pitcher, the player protested, saying " But I'm not tired". Said Casey in response," Well , I'm tired of you ".

If the Red Sox do turn their season around, maybe -just maybe–they'll find their way to the 2026 playoffs. Seems unlikely, granted.... but baseball's very best stories are based on the improbable. After all, did the '67 Boston squad curl up and surrender when star right fielder Tony Conigliaro was beaned on August 17 and missed tbe remainder of the season? Or when ace pitcher Jim Lonborg went to serve his two week stint in the Army Reserve? No. They did not quit. With growing popular acclaim , they adopted the theme of The Impossible Dream as their musical inspiration--

This is my quest..

to follow that star..

no matter how hopeless..

no matter how far..

( The Man of La Mancha- 1965)

If anything, the Red Sox redoubled their efforts. In fact, Yaz himself famously did his very best work for the final two weeks of that miraculous season . All these years later, his offensive production numbers still look ridiculous. Over the final twelve games in 1967, in an incredibly tight four- team race, Yaz hit .523 with five homers and 16 RBI to lead his team to the pennant.

Is there a Yaz redux lurking somewhere on the current Red Sox roster? Highly unlikely. Some would say impossible. But it's only May. There's lots of baseball yet to play in 2026. And every so often, Impossible Dreams do come true.

Only Fenway really knows what's in the cards.

Patrick Conarro

RamblinSports