Beer and (F) Bombs at Bo-Sox: How Drunks Spoiled the Party

[Mike Gange]

 

By Mike Gange

 

I promised my kid some fireworks on his birthday. Little did I know we would be in the middle of the fireworks.

My son was born on Canada Day. July first always has a fireworks display in our area, and we always make our way down to the riverbank at night, spread out a blanket, and watch the fireworks pop off over the St. John River.

For his 16^th birthday, the day that is supposed to be so special, we decided to catch fireworks in two countries. We drove down to Boston, a six hour drive from here, to catch the fireworks after the outdoor concert on the Esplanade. Toby Keith was singing some songs with the Boston Pops Orchestra at the band shell. I do like a few of Toby’s songs, such as the whimsical “Beer for My Horses,” or the uber-patriotic “Red, White and Blue.”  He only sang a few songs with the orchestra, but it was a good show.

A pleasant uniformed State trooper asked us where we were from. We said we were Canadians and then found out he had relatives not far from where we live.    

The Boston fireworks are second to none. Seems like half the city and most of the state turn out for the fireworks along the Charles River. We watched the display of colours and firecrackers shoulder-to-shoulder with thousands of people of every skin colour and place of origin.

The fire storm started when we went to the Red Sox Game. The boy decided that the Sox game at the fabled Fenway would be a good way to acknowledge the milestone of being 16. It was the kind of thing he said he would remember for a lifetime. Little did we know.

We sat in the family section, along the first base line. Section 11, Row 14. The Sox were playing the Orioles. Around us were families with little kids in ball caps. Those little kids had eyes as wide as saucers as they enjoyed their visit to a big league game. My guy was laid back and quiet, observing everything.

Right behind us were some drunks. There were about seven of them, five guys and a couple of girls. They were drunk when they got there. As they drained their two beer cups each, they got drunker and noisier. They called for more beer and it was delivered. The loudest, most obnoxious and drunkest was right over my shoulder, right there in my son’s ear too.

Then the language started. At first it was only occasionally that an f-bomb would make it into their conversations, which seemed to be louder and more inclusive with each batter. Lots of the moms and dads around us were glancing over their shoulders at these loud-mouthed drunks. The little kids with their ball hats pulled down over their brow, looked over their shoulders too, and then looked at their moms and dads, as if to get the acknowledgement that this behavior was not the right way to do things.

The drunks used the F-bomb as if it were an adjective in every sentence. Then they added the F-bomb as a noun. They pretty soon upped the ante again, adding it as an adjective before every verb.

They peppered their comments, louder and louder, at every batter, every play that was fielded, and at every call the umpire made. The kids looked increasingly shocked and bewildered  at this raucous behavior. The parents repeatedly turned to the drunks and reminded them this was July 4^th weekend, it was a family event, pleading for them to keep it down. I turned to them too, asking they keep it down.

People all around us told them to keep it down. Men stood up and walked over to them and said they had to keep the language respectable. In the seventh inning, someone called security. They took a while to get there, but eventually kicked out the gang of them. Four of them left without question. The last guy, the guy right over my shoulder, stood up, drained about half of the beer from his cup, and then threw the rest on me. “Here F-face,” he said. It ran down my head, neck and shoulders, ruining a new shirt I had just bought.

The fans around me apologized. One guy came over and shook my hand. He said that is not what this game is about, or what the fans would tolerate. He said he admired the way I did not get into a fist-fight with the guy behind me. A woman reached over, handing me a package of tissues to wipe off the beer. Little kids looked concerned, like they had just witnessed a school yard bullying incident.

My own son said he thought we were going to have to fight our way out of trouble.

I said both country’s national anthems are about being free and being brave. Sometimes, I said, it is more important to be brave and NOT get into a fist-fight.