Summer Loyalty

I was in enemy territory. I did not want the home team to win. I wanted my beloved Red Sox to sweep the weekend series verses the Baltimore Orioles. 
My friend Wendy and I had flown into Baltimore on a Friday night, and headed straight for our hotel and a good night sleep. We needed to be at the top of "our game" when we headed to the baseball game the next day. Neither of us had been to a rival ball park before, but we assumed we would need all our strength to face the rival fans. After all, we knew if someone had the audacity to wear baseball attire other than that with the Red Sox insignia into Fenway that he would be heckled mercilessly throughout the game. I have witnessed this heckling of the ill fated fan in Fenway on many occasions. It would usually start with some hometown fan noticing the "ill-advised" and "improperly" dressed fan sitting unaware in his seat. The Red Sox fan would then point out this transgression to his friends and the finger pointing would begin. This would be followed with taunting of the enemy team. For the most part it would start quietly and then gradually increase in both volume and intensity as the game progressed. Hopefully, at this point the wayward fan would begin to vouch for the credibility of his team and start defending his decision to wear that teams insignia to Fenway. If this happens then a whole other round of taunting and heckling begins. This time the heckling would be targeted at the reasons the fan gave for wearing the wrong uniform. The ire of the wayward enemy fan would be raised and he would retort with accusations about the quality of the Red Sox players. With this simple remark, the enemy fan would suddenly wake the rest of the surrounding Red Sox fans. Up until this direct assault on the home town team, the shouting match had been strictly between the wayward fan and the Sox fan who pointed out his dressing error. Now however, everyone in the area joins in the effort to make the fan feel "sorry" he had disgraced the Sox by slighting them. This bantering would continue throughout the entire game. In fact, I would say this ritual of defending the honor of the Sox against all comers is as much a part of the Fenway experience as actually watching the home town team play. 
Armed with this knowledge we were pleased to awake refreshed and full of anticipation. 
I proudly dressed in my Red Sox shirt and baseball cap. Wendy however, did not want to draw attention to herself and decided to wear neutral, non-baseball clothes. I told her I would gladly lend her any of my Red Sox paraphernalia, but she steadfastly and politely refused. Inwardly, I thought that by not showing Red Sox support while visiting enemy territory she would miss a good portion of the fun to be had at the game. Finally, I gave in and told her that even though she was not overtly rooting for the Sox like I was that I would still tum to her for reinforcement if the enemy proved strong. She just smiled. Poor Wendy, she has known me long enough to know that I was being serious. 
Since it was a gorgeous sunny day, Wendy and I decided to walk to the ball park instead of taking a cab. By strolling through the street of Baltimore I was able to gage the level of enemy dislike for the Red Sox. At one point we had to stop and ask a storekeeper for directions. We entered the convenience store and headed for the cashier. When we reached him I asked for directions to Camden Yards. The cashier, who was dressed in the orange and brown colors of the hometown Orioles, glared at me. He cracked a half smile and turned to Wendy. The cashier addressed Wendy and told her the directions, but also added that she should advise her friend against wearing Sox clothes to the game. Wendy gave a nervous laugh as she couldn't figure out the exact reason for the last remark. It was hard to tell if the cashier was just giving me a hard time, or if he was warning me that the fans would be as loyal to their team as I was to mine. I however, reacted quite differently than Wendy. I was all the more enthused and invigorated to invade enemy land. 
After a brief ten minute walk, Camden Yards was in our sights. I had to stop and stare at the actual facility. It was only a year old and consequently in pristine condition. It was also immense by Fenway standard. The closer we came to the park the grandiose nature of the facility became even more apparent. Through the outer gates of the park's entrance one could see what seemed like a street worth of baseball shops. This "street" however, was not a real street and could only be accessed by those attending the game. In the middle of this pseudo street were hot dog vendors. Lined throughout the rest of the "street" were picnic tables for families to enjoy either a hot dog or a home packed lunch before actually entering the park. It tortured me to admit, but the airy, wide-open feel surrounding the ballpark was a nice change from the overcrowded streets by Fenway. 
Wendy was not as impressed as I was, but she let me gaze at the surroundings before we actually entered the park. I was jarred back into reality and quickly remembered the importance of my support mission by the ticket collector. Not surprisingly, he was outfitted from head to toe in Oriole attire. He was a thin elderly man who proved to have a mischievous and fun demeanor. Since Wendy and I were quite early for the game, the area by the ticket collection was quite empty. Upon seeing me dressed to the hilts to show my allegiance to the Sox, the ticket man started to chant about the Red Sox in a soft almost indistinguishable voice. Gradually, the chant became louder. Once he realized he had brought me back to reality the chant grew in length and accusation. The tone of his chant was reminiscent of a child's taunting chant when he gloats about receiving his way. I turned to the ticket collector and flashed a big smile. I walked towards him and said how glad I was he noticed my attire. I then proceeded to tell him I wore it so the people of Baltimore would know what a winning team looks like. He smiled and laughed in return. We exchanged further barbs and discussed the sheer fun of baseball. During this, poor Wendy became mortified. She was embarrassed by my teasing of the ticket man. She had wanted just to enter and find our seats without creating a stir. She held her head low as she finally realized my earlier statement had been truthful. We were going to a baseball game, but we were also going into a war against the Oriole fans. I was not going to enter quietly, so consequently neither was she. After final parting shots to the ticket man we entered the facility. 
We strolled down the "street" of shops and finally decided to enter the stadium and find our seats. On the way to the seats I noted that most of the fans were children. I do not have a problem with children and strongly believe they should attend baseball games, but I did not think it proper to begin a debate over the supremacy of teams with children. I should have known better though. When I passed an unsupervised group of children they began to chant their opinion of the Red Sox. To Wendy's surprise and delight, I just kept walking. When we reached our seats I explained that even though we were in the midst of rival baseball territory it was not in the baseball code to take on children as casualties. Good old Wendy just shook her head and told me that I was officially crazy. 
The stadium filled as game time drew closer. Fortunately, (or unfortunately for Wendy) we were situated high in the stands in the rowdy section. We were surrounded by Baltimore fans’ of a similar age. Almost immediately upon recognition of a "traitor" being in his midst a tall, lean man wearing the native colors of orange and brown stripes, pointed me out to his group. The good times started to roll. We exchanged playful and good humored remarks before the game even began. I felt it my duty to constantly point out how many homeruns the Red Sox were hitting in batting practice. They kept reminding me all that counted was homers in the game. We continued to banter until the singing of our national anthem. 
I was not prepared for the national anthem ritual of the Oriole fans. When the singer reached the point where she sang, "Oh say can you see," and "Oh say does that Star - Spangled Banner yet wave" the Baltimore fans overemphasized the pronunciation of "Oh" and pointed to the nearest Oriole insignia. I gave them creativity points, but was still staunchly set to support the Red Sox. 
Being a Red Sox fan it was painful to watch the game. This pain had nothing to do with remarks made between fans of either camp, but rather because the Red Sox played pitifully. It had to have been their worst game of the season. Wendy and I remained the entire game, even though it was obvious the Sox were not going to pull ahead. I braced myself for multiple and mocking accusations by the Orioles fans as we descended the steps. To my surprise, the Oriole fans were so excited that their team had actually won that they all left in a cheery mood. Wendy and I almost made it out of the park without incident when we were stopped by a gentleman in a satin green coat. He came beside us and just started talking. I have to admit I was more concerned with his hideous coat then with what he was saying. He was prattling on about how great it was that young people were still carrying on baseball rivalries. Apparently, he was praising me for wearing the enemy uniform and then boldly and unabashedly entering enemy land. He shook our hands and then became hidden amongst the crowd. I thought this chance meeting might have been staged by enemy operations to gage my allegiance to the cause. I could not help but think about his ugly green satin coat. These colors were neutral. They did not favor either side of the baseball drama. I remained curious but, let the incident go and enjoyed the rest of the evening. 
The sun rose on Sunday and with it my hopes for exacting revenge on the baseball field. 
The Sox were pitiful yesterday, but I was confident the game would go differently today. Confident, I donned more Red Sox apparel and prepared for the game. Wendy and I took the same walking route to the ballpark. En route, we met the shopkeeper who had warned about the perils of wearing enemy uniforms to the park. When he saw us he just started waving his pointed finger back and forth in a negative manner. All I could hear as I drew closer to the shopkeeper was his loud repetition of "tsk, tsk, tsk." I gave him a wide smile and said it was a great day for a ball game. Wendy was walking as fast as she could in an effort to distance herself from me and my antics. I finally caught up with her on the following block. She turned to me and said, 
"Will you behave today?" 
I agreed that I would try to behave. 
When we reached the ball park we were greeted by the same mischievous ticket man as 

we had yesterday. He gloatingly remarked that yesterday was a great ball game. He proudly told me he was wearing the brown and orange to show me what a winning team looked like. I 

laughed and took the assault by telling the ticket man "Touché." 
Wendy and I decided to partake in the "street" atmosphere and ate lunch at the picnic 
tables. I was eating a hot dog, commentating to any one who was listening, that this hot dog was good, but it could not compare with a Fenway Frank. As I rambled on about the finer points of hot dogs, I was unaware that a fellow Sox believer had sat down beside me. When Wendy finally got my attention and pointed toward our fellow compatriot I was stunned. The man with the hideous green satin coat was sitting beside me. This time however, he was dressed from head to toe in Red Sox paraphernalia. I embarrassingly had to take a double take at the man. His transformation from "potential covert enemy spy" to absolute allegiance to the Sox was unbelievable. He then said, "Thank you for reminding me to enjoy the game and to enjoy and be proud of my team." With that said, the man hurried off into the crowd. 
I sat smiling for a few minutes. Wendy sat wondering if all baseball fans view the game as such a rivalry as I did. Somehow reading her mind, I said aloud, "No, just Red Sox fans." ©