I don’t recall all the details from the first pilgrimage, in 1999 when Julie was turning 4; phones didn’t have cameras then. Still, there are plenty of vivid memories.
First and foremost, there is the one of Julie smiling and eating popcorn in her grandstand seat along the third base line, the tops of her ears tucked beneath an adult-size Red Sox cap. The near-sellout crowd starts doing the wave and, when the human tide swells over us for the second time, Julie throws her hands in the air and laughs. The popcorn rain that follows is well worth it.
Later, out on the concourse, she presents a pristine white baseball to Paws, the team’s 6-foot-6-inch polar bear mascot. In a display of hand-eye coordination that Nomar Garciaparra would appreciate, Paws produces a stylish autograph with a black Sharpie marker, before handing the ball back to one excited 4-year-old.
At the start of the sixth inning, Julie succumbs to an epic yawn — it’s well past her bedtime. Twenty minutes later, driving away from McCoy, I look in the rear view mirror: light from a passing car glides over my daughter’s cherubic, and sleeping, face.
Originally, I took Julie to McCoy because I love going to games and thought she might, too. Eventually, I did it because sitting with her in Section 13 or on the left-field berm brought out an ease in me that I rarely felt elsewhere. The games suspended thoughts of work and bills and everything on the to-do list. The games gave us each other.
Carving out such time for the youngest of our three children was my wife’s idea. “It doesn’t matter what you do,” Deb said, “as long as it’s just the two of you.” So every August, it’s just Julie and me — and seven or eight thousand other fans — soaking in the singularly Rhode Island experience that is a PawSox game.
At McCoy, Julie has endured my long-winded explanations of baseball arcana: the reasoning behind the infield fly rule, the timing on a suicide squeeze. When she was 6 or 7, after one of my dissertations had wafted away in the summer air, she redirected the conversation: “Can I get Dippin’ Dots?” I heard a chuckle from an old-timer sitting behind us, clad in a faded Yaz t-shirt. And then Julie and I were off to the concession stand — a cup of tiny frozen ice cream beads for her, a cold beer for me.
Sometimes, action on the field provided the highlights. The crowd buzzed as a rehabbing Dustin Pedroia stepped into the on-deck circle. Or a long, arcing throw from a PawSox outfielder miraculously found the catcher’s poised mitt — SMACK! — just as the charging runner slid into home — YER OUT! Did you see that, Julie? Woo-hoo!
As my daughter approached her teen years, I wondered if she would outgrow the charms of McCoy. One birthday, we went to Fenway to see the big-league Sox. When I proposed a return to Boston the following summer, Julie said she preferred Pawtucket. And when I asked if she wanted to bring a friend to help her celebrate, she echoed my wife’s words from years ago: “I like going just the two of us.”
That was my all-time PawSox highlight, and we weren’t even at the ballpark.
With the sale of the team, and the potential move to a new stadium in Providence (or elsewhere), it looks like Julie and I may make our final trip to McCoy next summer, when she turns 21. We have already laughed about how she will forgo Dippin’ Dots in favor of a cold beer.
We’ll raise our plastic cups — to her, to McCoy, and to our beloved tradition. And if we are lucky, the sky out west beyond the entrance tower will glow pink and lavender one last time.