I spent some time with my father the other night.

I went up to Boston to catch a Red Sox game with a buddy of mine. We parked in a lot nearby the ball park, paid the man $35 for the parking space, and then walked the two blocks to Fenway Park.

It had been at least eight or nine years since I had been to Fenway. My dad and I used to go up to Boston to catch the games all the time, but lately, well, I’ve been too busy, and Boston is an hour and a half away.

As my friend and I walked the familiar streets of Boston, the first thing I saw was the old Citgo Sign that, from inside the park, looms up over The Green Monster in left field, just to the left of the American flag. The sign was like an old friend – always there. Proof that there is still some stability in the universe after all.

I walked up and touched the 97-year-old bricks on the most beloved ballpark in America. I ran my hand along it as I walked up the crowded and bustling Yawkey Way, with it’s souvenir shops , food vendors and hawkers screaming out, enticing patrons to buy their wares.

The smell of the hot dogs, sausages and popcorn cooking filled the air and became overwhelming. So my friend and I stopped and bought a couple of Sam Adams Octoberfests and two sausage grinders, his with peppers and onions, mine with just peppers. As we stood enjoying our dinner at one of the tall tables in the middle of the grand courtyard, I watched the multitudes of happy fans rushing by me, almost ALL of them wearing some sort of Boston Red Sox Gear (baseball caps, knitted winter hats, sweatshirts, jackets). And then, I saw a familiar face that I thought I never see again in my life.

The throngs seemed to part like the Red (Sox) Sea, and out of the midst of the crowd walked my father. He just sauntered up and stood by my side. No big “Hello, Jimmy” or hug or anything like that. Just his little half-smile and quick nod of his head as our eyes met.

“You gonna stand here eating all night, or are we gonna go inside and catch batting practice?” he asked, looking at the entrance to Gate A.

Back in the day, my dad amd I used to get the park early all the time because he loved watching batting practice! I remembered a time when I was just a kid, and he and I took in batting practice before a Sox-Yankees game. We had season’s tickets, and our seats were about twenty rows behind the Sox dugout, down the first base line. (During batting practice, Dad and I always walked down to the fence that separated the seats from the field. We always stood right next to the dugout so that we could be close to the players as they entered and exited the field.) That particular day was special. I shook hands with Carl Yazstremski that day. (My father and I were both inawe of this man – in my estimation, he is the second-greatest Red Sox player of all time, right after The Splendid Splinter. NOBODY played a bounce off The Green Monster the way that the great Yaz could! And this man shook my hand!!!!)

I looked at Dad and smiled, saying, ""All right. Let's go in." My friend and I picked up our beers and our sandwiches and walked into the hallowed grounds which are Fenway. As we moved up the pedestrian ramp to our seats, Dad stopped and said, “What the hell? Where ya going?”

I explained to him that our seats were on the third base side tonight, not on the first base line. He shrugged, grumbled to himself, and followed us up the cement steps to our seats, which were first installed back in 1934.

All night long, Dad hooted and cheered the Sox, called the Blue Jays a bunch of Canadian bums, and angrily offered his glasses to the umpires, just like he always did.

Just before the seventh inning started, he stood up, stretched, and made the same grand announcement that he always made during the seventh inning stretch, “I’ll be back. Gotta go take a whiz.” I just shook my head and smiled. He’ll never change.

The Sox lost that night by an embarrassing score of 12 – 0. But I didn’t care. I had a nice visit.

As we were piling out of the stadium after the game, Dad looked up at the “1918” banner that was flying overhead. “The last great year for the Sox!” he declared. “The curse of the Bambino!”

“Not any more, Dad,” I replied and pointed to the “2004” and “2007” banners. “That’s what’s happened since you’ve been gone.”

He stared at the pennants flapping in the wind high over the stadium and said, “Ya don’t say! Well, I’ll be damned!”

As we came to the end of Yawkey Way, my friend and I took a left toward the parking lot where our car was waiting. Dad stopped, and he grabbed me by the shoulder. “I’m parked at The Prudential” he said, and he jerked his thumb over his shoulder in the opposite direction. (He always parked under the Pru, even though it was a good mile away from the stadium, because it was cheaper.)

Dad then shoved his hands in his jacket pockets, winked and said, “Catch ya later.”

No wave. No hug. No “I love you.” Just a wink and a “Catch ya later.”

Then he turned and disappeared into the crowd.

I love Fenway Park.