THE BLOG

Friends In High Places at Fenway Park

06/05/2015 01:18 pm ET | Updated Jun 05, 2016

Took my wife to a day game at Fenway Park yesterday, and there are few things better in life than day baseball. Especially at Fenway.

I'm glancing at the standings on the Green Monster when I notice an error.

The sign has both the Blue Jays and the Red Sox tied for last place, 4½ games behind the hated Yankees.

But the Blue Jays have won one more game than the Red Sox.

How can that be?

I did the math repeatedly in my head, because I'm that kind of person, and I concluded that the scoreboard reflected an error in calculation.

So I pointed it out to my wife, because that's when men do.

But the story doesn't stop there.

I share a barber - a self-described lady barber, mind you - with Dick Flavin, poet laureate of the Boston Red Sox and often the daytime P.A. announcer at Fenway Park.

The pregame announcements began, and sure enough, Dick's mellifluous Boston-tinged baritone was echoing around the diamond, welcoming us to beloved Fenway Park.

Now, Dick has become a friend.

He even brought our kids up to the broadcast booth after a game, let them hold his 2013 World Series ring, and recited them a poem he had created about the Sox.

When he's not announcing Red Sox games, he travels from event to event on behalf of the team as a goodwill ambassador, reciting his Red Sox poetry, which will be published in a book from William Morrow around the time of this summer's All-Star Game.

So I reached for my phone and sent Dick a text.

There's a mistake on the scoreboard on the Green Monster, I wrote. It's got the Jays at 4½ out. They're only 4 out.

I told my wife what I had done, because that's what husbands do. She didn't seem overly excited.

Dick wrote back a moment later, in between at bats he was announcing.

By the way, if you're old enough to remember, Fenway used to have a PA announcer legendary for getting drunk during the games, slurring or mispronouncing players' names, or sometimes disappearing into a cone of silence for several innings at a time.

Not anymore.

So Dick texted back, we'll get that fixed.

A moment later, I glanced at the scoreboard out in left field.

Sure enough, the offending ½ sign had been removed.

I'd told Dick, and Dick had told somebody, and the error had been fixed.

I felt like I'd won the lottery.

I started whooping and hollering, because that's what men do, and I pointed it out to my wife, because that's what married men do.

She still wasn't impressed.

But I was.

I don't know what was more amazing - the fact that I had a friend in high places (literally so - the announcer's booth is on the top level of Fenway, hundreds of feet above home plate).

Or the fact that we enjoy telecommunications technology that allows thought to be transferred from one place to another without even saying a word.

Or the fact that Dick had his phone on and read my text...during the game.

Or the fact that Sox immediately acted on what I'd noticed and handled the matter instantly.

Or all of the above.

It doesn't matter.

I shared my accomplishment with the strangers sitting around us, who, oddly, were no more excited about the whole thing than my wife was.

But to me it's a big deal.

It's the day I fixed the scoreboard at Fenway.

By the way, the Red Sox won.