I was born in Boston in 1952. My childhood, teenage years, and college career were spent within the confines of New England. My heart belonged to the Celtics and Red Sox. These allegiances were never challenged by my decades of living in New York or anywhere else in the world.
When in 2004 the Red Sox came back from a 0-3 deficit to defeat the Yankees, I was sitting in a bar in Thailand. The only fan in the bar. The other drinkers were finishing off the night. I cheered the ending of the Curse of the Bambino by buying everyone at the bar a drink. We toasted the triumph. None of them cared since they were Thai or English wankers.
I was sober and they were drunk.
I got my way and celebrated the victory by buying everyone at the bar a drink. After my explanation of the Curse of the Bambino, we toasted the the Red Sox. Few of them cared about baseball, although the Brits understood the pain, since England hasn’t won the World Cup in over a half-century.
Four years later my Thai wife Mam announced that she was pregnant with a boy and I consulted my overseas friends for a name.
Jesse James Smith sounded good, until someone informed me that the Missouri outlaw had owned slaves. Malcolm X Smith was a little too heavy a name to carry through his life. My favorite runner as a teenager had been 2OO-meter champion Tommie Smith, who had raised his fist in protest of racism at the 1968 Summer Olympics in Mexico City, but Tommie Smith Smith was too much Smith for my boy.
“What about Fenway?” suggested Shannon Greer on a long distance call to Brooklyn. We were good friends, despite his status as a Yankee fan.
Four years later my Thai wife Mam announced that she was pregnant with a boy and I consulted my overseas friends for a name. Jesse James Smith sounded good, until someone said that the Missouri outlaw owned slaves. Malcolm X Smith was a little too heavy a name to carry through his life. My favorite runner as a teenager was Tommie Smith. He had raised his fist on the medal podium at the 1968 Summer Olympics in Mexico City.
Tommie Smith Smith was too much Smith.
“What about Fenway?” suggested Shannon Greer. He’s a New York fan. We are good friends.
“Fenway Smith.” I liked it and googled Fenway Smith. None showed up on the search for Smith, Jones, Williams, Lee, Sanchez, Miller, or Martin. I explained the origins of the name to Mam.
“Can not name your son Fenway Park Smith.”
“Why not?”
“Everyone think he Korean not Thai with name Park.”
She was right and we have a loving son Fenway.
His middle name is Superstar.
Back in 2012 I had to leave Thailand. I traveled back and forth every 2-3 months until COVIDS hit the world. Fenway is always in my mind as are the rest of my children; Fluke, Noi, and Angie. My younger sister disapproved of naming my son ‘Fenway’.
She’s a lawyer. They have strong opinions.
“You’ll see why it’s stupid.”
She’s has a funny way of being right, but Fenway has many names; Wey-wey, One-way, and always Superstar.
Presently I live in Brooklyn. It’s more Mets territory than Yankee land. My friends at Frank’s Lounge appreciate the name and on many occasions I proudly tell people, “My son’s name is Fenway.”
Last week I bought him a Red Sox suit. I walked back to my brownstone and saw a young man with a small dog. He was wearing a Red Sox cap. We spoke about our faith and I asked him, “What’s your dog’s name?”
“Fenway.”
I didn’t tell him about my son, but several days later I ran into another young Red Sox fan with a dog. Once again the mutt’s name was Fenway and I understood the reason parents don’t name their kids ‘Fenway’ is because young men name their dogs after the Bosox park.
But I’m not a young man anymore, yet I have memories.
Back in the early 60s my father took me to see the KC As at Fenway. I sat on the steps of the 3rd base line for the 1975 World Series. 2004 I was halfway around the world. A Red Sox fan to the core and my son is Fenway Superstar Smith.
One day I’ll take him to the temple and that destiny is written in the stars.