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| Monday, November 6 | |||||
| A time machine worth saving ESPN.com | |||||
| When it comes to the fate of Fenway Park, I believe I have something of a unique perspective, as I'm one of the few people in the world -- team employees notwithstanding -- who attended all 81 Red Sox home games of the 2000 season.
I've been there in the rain and the sun and the heat and the cold, and I've sat in nearly every sort of seat. I've snagged a foul ball off the bat of "Nomah," and I've stood on Lansdowne during batting practice, on the lookout for titanic home runs. I've even spent a night inside Fenway, from dusk to dawn, just me and the clean-up crew and the rats and the Green Monster. So while I'm certainly no New Englander, not after just six months, there's little of New England's home ballpark I haven't experienced.
And I'm telling you, the day we lose Fenway Park, we lose something special that can never be replaced. Because as vigorously as Red Sox management strives to destroy the unique atmosphere by playing canned music (most of it horrible) between innings, and posting billboards wherever space can be found, Fenway remains the single best place on the planet to watch a baseball game. I've been to the great majority of major-league ballparks -- this year's additions notwithstanding -- and I can tell you that on their best days, Safeco Field and Camden Yards and The Ballpark in Arlington might provide half the experience that Fenway Park does.
Do baseball fans make pilgrimages to Arlington, Texas? Do they walk around Safeco Field slowly, gawking while committing their surroundings to posterity with a camcorder? Do they buy hundreds of tickets, every day from Memorial Day through Labor Day, for tours of Camden Yards?
No, they do not. But I've seen them do all these things, and more, at Fenway Park.
So what does Red Sox management crave? Yup, yet another version of Safeco Field (less the retractable roof), with perhaps a dollop of Camden Yards thrown in to satisfy the traditionalists among us. Yes, the Red Sox say a new ballpark will retain the intimacy of Fenway Park, but I'm telling you that it's not going to happen. Nobody's done it yet, and the preliminary designs released by the Sox certainly don't show a surfeit of architectural imagination.
Red Sox general manager Dan Duquette loves to say that a new ballpark will be "for the fans." Really? Which fans are those? Most of the seats in a new ballpark, while certainly more comfortable, will also be significantly farther from the action on the field. And while there will be more of them, the "additional" seating will almost literally be closer to Boston Harbor than home plate. Oh, and don't think they'll be any cheaper. Red Sox tickets are the most expensive, and that certainly will not change.
Of course, there's the competitiveness argument. A new ballpark will be better for the fans because the fans want to see the Red Sox win a World Series, and with greater revenues will come more victories. Perhaps. But as long as the Red Sox reside in the same division with the Yankees, this will be something of a fool's game. As the logic goes, the Red Sox need a new ballpark in order to compete with the Yankees. No, the Sox won't ever be able to match the Yankees' financial resources, but they can at least close the gap, right?
Sorry, folks, but it won't work that way. In 2001, the Red Sox will likely have a payroll somewhere in the neighborhood of $90 million, while the Yankees will be closer to $120 million (or more). But you see, the only thing limiting the Yankees is the knowledge that $120 million will probably be enough. If the Red Sox suddenly found another $20 million from, say, a new ballpark, don't you think the Yankees would themselves find an extra $20 million -- or $30 million, or $40 million -- of their own?
Of course they would. The Yankees, because of the immense size of their local TV revenues, will always have a huge financial advantage. It's merely a question of how much George Steinbrenner puts in his pockets, and how much he plows back into the club. And as the Red Sox get richer, Steinbrenner's pockets will simply get poorer as the Yankees maintain their financial edge by any means necessary.
So I reject the competitiveness argument. Given the price of tickets and the large, enthusiastic fan base, there's no reason for the Red Sox to cry poor. No, they'll never have the Yankees' money, but that's true no matter what the status of their ballpark.
Yes, I know that Fenway's seats can be uncomfortable, especially for tall fans, or fans who have trouble stopping at one Big Mac and a large order of fries. And I know that Fenway's bathrooms are a bit ramshackle and cramped, if not downright revolting by the seventh inning. And I know that there aren't many seats (though I've never had any trouble finding one for myself).
But Fenway Park is a special place, a time machine that allows us to imagine what baseball was like when Ted Williams galloped around in left field, when Lou Gehrig sent towering fly balls into the right-field bleachers, when Carlton Fisk hit the most-replayed home run in baseball history. Yes, it can be uncomfortable place ... but have we become so spoiled, so coddled, so insulated that we cannot cope with three hours of discomfort, in exchange for three hours in a time machine?
Rob Neyer is a baseball columnist for ESPN.com. |  | ||||