Word: fenway
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Dates: during 1990-1999
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When I chose a college, I figured that Harvard's proximity to Fenway Park was a huge plus; I'd soon be loving the Red Sox almost as dearly as I prize my Orioles. But I can't wax poetic about Fenway the way I could about Memorial Stadium, because it's just not my home. Roger Clemens charges money for an autograph. Repeat: he charges for a signature. At each game, I hear a new complaint: "Jody Reed sucks!" "Mike Greenwell's an overpaid bum!" "Find me a relief pitcher...
...Fenway Park was supposed to be (yes, I'll take the bait) a field of dreams. I don't care where you come from; if you're a baseball fan you've seen more pictures of that Green Monster than of any other ball park feature, save Wrigley's ivied walls...
...right, I admit, at first, I loved it--the bleachers, the Monster, the Fenway Franks. I loved that my first game at Fenway was an Orioles victory...
...fans here are tense. No, they're obviously not all displaced Harvard students. Yet everybody at Fenway seems to have this obsession-driven attachment to the game. They are angry after a loss and full of complaints after a win. Okay, I understand it. But this is not home...
...ball games to relax and pass the time, not to worry about how I'm wasting it. Ever since I arrived, I've felt lost at Fenway. Maybe a little lost at Harvard as well. It'd be nice if I could go to an afternoon baseball game and just have a good time in the sun. However, since (a) no one here seems to have the time to accompany me and (b) a BoSox game isn't all that relaxing, I've decided...