And all those seats, freshly painted turquoise, beige, and light blue to pop this season on color TV. Together they passed through the turnstiles and down the dim concourse and up through the tunnel, where the panorama before her made Colleen draw in a quick breath: the unblemished chalk lines and the crisp red-white-and-blue bunting, the emerald grass and the walls to match, concrete and tin coated in a shade called Statler Green.
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This was a father-daughter adventure, one slipped from school, the other taking the day off as a driver and co-owner of the local school bus company. In both hands she clutched foil-wrapped hot dogs, a source not of nutrition but warmth at 35 cents apiece.Īnd there, farther back in the grandstand, was Colleen Whitney, an eighth-grader from Lakeville more in love with Davy Jones and the Monkees than Dalton Jones and the Red Sox but delighted simply to be at the park with her light-hearted dad after calling a radio contest on a lark. Jasmin had little trouble getting a spot for his powder-blue Pontiac Tempest in the open lot beside the Salvation Army rehab center and near the main entrance to Fenway Park, a tired little ball field ringed by drab warehouses and print shops and meatloaf-special cafeterias.Īgainst the cold, Jasmin hopped up and down in a field box on the first base side with his young wife, Elaine, in her fur collar and fur-lined hat, lured by the promise of dinner on the town afterwards.
Come July, those stations would be calling politely to ask if they might have some of the seats back, their phones suddenly jangling with requests.
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sometimes hung out - Jasmin found himself awash in free tickets, the rare client who was glad to take them from the radio stations by the handful. Now, doing promotions for some of the new singles clubs sprouting around Boston - including Lucifer’s in Kenmore Square, where Tony C. As a teenager, he would drive to a hilltop in Trumbull to pick up the radio signal at night. Marc Jasmin, a 27-year-old ad man who was new to town, had been waiting two decades for this, after a southern Connecticut childhood in which he inherited his dad’s inexplicable love for the Sox but never made it to Fenway. Marlene Weisman and Harriet Talent, Northeastern students, were on hand to gaze in person again at Tony Conigliaro, the dark-haired 22-year-old slugger, after six months of waiting. “You gotta be a fruitcake to be out here on a day like this,” said Eddie Szczepanski, a Somerville mechanic and World War II vet with 15 straight openers under his belt. So they opened instead on the 12th, just a few degrees warmer, a subdued scattering of fans filtering into Fenway Park. On Monday the team had gone to a preseason luncheon at Anthony’s Pier Four - a last meal for a death-row inmate, the wags in the press said - and on Tuesday they were supposed to open, but knock-down winds, soggy turf, and sub-40 temperatures forced them to postpone.
No, not for a second, and anyone who did belonged with the turned-on, tuned-in kids at that day’s Be-In on the Boston Common, strumming lyres and dispensing daffodils and blowing candy-colored bubbles, a psychedelic gathering of several thousand, rivaling the typical crowd at Fenway. Or foresee that this would become a baseball town forever. Or dream that by October even a police horse working crowd control outside Fenway - imagine that - would be wearing a ribbon that read “Go-Go Red Sox,” like the stickers and buttons that had overtaken New England.
No one could imagine that come July more fans would swarm Logan to scream their names and grasp for them than had overrun the airport for the Beatles the summer before. “You’re giving him too much of an edge.”Īnd so they had flown up from Florida on Northeast Airlines that Sunday, April 9, arriving at night to a quiet Logan Airport, a team with no idea what it was like to be above average. “Bet him we’ll finish sixth or better,” Yaz told Gibson.
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