I’m not exactly sure what the cut-off for being a part of the fabled 1% of the wealthiest people is, but I know I’m not there. But, for one night, I was. Sort of.
Through a thoughtful and generous connection with connections, I scored four EMC Club tickets to the Red Sox game on Wednesday night. If I could, I would tell you the face value of the tickets, but they were so expensive that the price wasn't even on them.
I’ve sat almost everywhere in Fenway over the past 30-something years. Some of the seats have been great, and other games I’ve spent banging my knees against the seat in front of me, leaning back and forth to see around a pole while in the middle seat of a row of 24, with a 300 pound guy wedged into the seat next to me listening to the game on his 1984 headphones and lamenting the fact that the Sox traded Fred Lynn in 1981.
Nothing prepared me for sitting in the second row of the EMC Club section.
My wife, Jen, and our boys, Brendan and Conor, didn’t enter Fenway with the riff-raff who were herded like cattle down ramps through the bowels of Fenway to their box, grandstand, or (hmph!) bleacher seats. We entered a separate door and took escalators up to the lofty heights of the EMC Club. We were greeted by a guy checking tickets at the bottom. We were greeted at a guy greeting people at the top.
We entered the Club, and were greeted there, as well, and where I said to the greeter that this is all new to me, please tell me how to get to my seats before my kids break something or accidentally spill a beverage on Sox owner John Henry (I didn’t say that last part, but I did think it).
Our butts - pardon me, I shouldn’t use such language, especially so soon after being in such a posh environment; let’s try again. Our tushies had barely settled into the cushioned seats with ample leg room before Brian introduced himself as the man who would be taking care of us tonight, and handed us a menu of their offerings that could be delivered to our seats.
At Fenway, I’m used to sweaty guys throwing bags of peanuts at me from 40 feet away. Brian’s going to deliver? That’s different. At the end of one particularly hot night in the bleachers, I recall two vendors hawking their goods by yelling “Warm, flat Coke, here!” and “Hot dogs here! Sweaty, steamy wienies!” I’m not making that up, and I knew Brian would never even consider using such language or bringing a steamy, sweaty wienie. Unless I asked for one, of course, then I’m sure he’d see what he could do.
We had already eaten, which was a good thing. Burgers were $20, a beer $8.75, and nachos $12.50. The boys asked if they could have dessert. The tickets were given to us, so I figured they could splurge (I don’t think this is how the thought process of the 1% would work). Our order: 2 sundaes, 1 jumbo cookie (I splurged, too), and 2 bottles of water. The damage: about $25! Wow.
For $7.25, I would have expected the boys’ sundaes to be roughly the size of a grapefruit, not 2 little scoops of ice cream. For $4.50, I expected a truly delicious jumbo cookie, preferably delivered by the elves who just baked it fresh in their treehouse cookie factory, not the plastic-wrapped job that just came out of the fridge that I actually did receive.
In the seventh inning or so, I happened to look to my left and saw Boston Bruins Shawn Thornton and Danny Paille in attendance. I don’t recall ever having seen professional athletes sitting near me in the bleachers. I’ve seen plenty of guys wearing Shawn Thornton shirts (but in no other way resembling him) stumbling up stairs while holding multiple plastic cups of Bud Light, but never the actual Thorty.
Then, in the eighth, the man himself made a brief appearance - Sox billionaire owner John Henry sat right next to me. Well, not exactly right next to me. Technically, he was in the same row one section over, but there was no one sitting in the fifteen seats or so between the two of us, so if you asked me in court who was sitting on my left, I could say “John Henry” with a clear conscience. I figure that’s as close as I’ll ever get to sitting next to a billionaire, so I’m going to make the most of it.
Mr. Henry (or “Johnny,” as he insisted I call him) was wearing jeans that most likely cost more than the combined value of any 10 pairs of pants I own, and an untucked, slightly-too-big pink shirt. He briefly chatted with some guy, then watched the game alone. He left towards the end of “Sweet Caroline,” and, no, he did not sing along, a lead I wish more people would follow. I don’t think he was sitting in his assigned seat, but, then again, they are all his seats.
Speaking of Fenway music, of which I could write an entire blog post about, they’ve added Michael Jackson to the rotation, which makes no sense to me at all. What’s next? When the Sox need a rally, will they play some inspiring Joe Paterno motivational speeches?
The EMC Club seats are, by far, the best seats I’ve had in the countless Red Sox games I’ve been to. We all had a great time as the Sox rolled to victory. The view is flawless. The seats are comfy. I would guess the food is really good.
The downside, of course, is that I have now been spoiled. Who wants to sit in Section 3 where you sweat your nuggets off, have to crane your neck to see anything and get your own food, and take 20 minutes to file out of the park after the game after spending a night in baseball heaven?
My God, I almost forgot the bathroom! A TV on the wall! No line! No pee on the floor! No drunk guys in line behind you yelling “Hurry up there, any more than three shakes is playing!” I bumped into Adrian Gonzalez’s brother in the bathroom - that doesn’t happen every day. (How do I know it was him? They look very much alike, and he was with a little kid decked out in a full Adrian Gonzalez uniform, which may have been the highlight of the night.)
For those of you relatively new to Fenway, let me introduce you to the trough. This is what Fenway’s men’s facilities used to look like. That’s right; take a breath.
Now, for a moment, take yourself back in time. It’s 1977 or so. You’re a 7 year-old boy, thrilled to be seeing Yaz, Fisk, and Lynn at Fenway. You have to pee. You walk into that room. Imagine the smell (and remember smoking was allowed at Fenway back then). Imagine the sites at the level of your 7 year-old eyes, as, up on tippy-toes, you tried to go. I can’t imagine why I ever went back. I can’t imagine how I was able to pee. I’m getting stage fright right now just thinking about it.
The EMC Club is the opposite of that in every imaginable way. I just need to figure out a way to get rich. So, 1%, here I come, even if I have to pee in a trough to get there!
