The bus towards the city is hot and crowded, but at least it’s moving. Conversations overlap between announcements from the automated voice system. A family of four sits in the seats in front of me; the kids are wearing Red Sox hats; their mother says they’ll be arriving at their stop in 15 minutes, maybe less, and the kids bounce with happy excitement.
Towards the back of the bus, a man animatedly tells the woman next to him about that moment when a person walks into the Fenway stands for the first time. “You come up and just see green. It’s biblical.”
The kid in front of me asks his dad if he needs to keep his Charlie ticket, since it says “one use only.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I think I will, it’s like my own credit card.”
From behind me, I hear a familiar voice; it’s that guy with whom I went on a few dates back in June. He’s with a girl in a Red Sox tank top (game-time temperature: 59 degrees) and they are having a stupid conversation about Cheez Whiz. I find it remarkable that I remember him as taller, cuter, and smarter than he actually is.
In section 7, row 2, we sit with our regular crew from our 10th Man Plan: the Captain, his daughter, and That Other Guy. We’re all quite pleased with our upgraded view. The Captain leans towards us in confidence. “If the umps make one more bad call, you girls might have to restrain me. I could kill ’em! And I went to mass this morning! I may have to go again tonight!”