Visiting Column #41 -- Peddling that License Plate

It is certainly arguable that the greatest baseball game in recorded history took place October 21, 1975, in Fenway Park, that geriatric green grande dame in the Back Bay of the city, that has hosted Boston Red Sox games for 108 years.

That game was, of course, the sixth game of the 1975 World Series between the Red Sox and the Cincinnati Reds, the latter a team distinguished both by the high quality of its mid-'70s lineups and its status as the most misspelled city in major-league baseball, a status it still holds.  One "N", then two "N"s, then one "T."  Should be easy.  Isn't.

But back to the game.  I was there, and still have my ticket to prove it, if you would think it something I'd be inclined to lie about.  Turn your head four degrees to the right, it's right there.

I was 24 and working at the time as a waiter at Whimsey's, a short-lived restaurant in the John Hancock tower parking building downtown, picking up a few bucks to supplement my singing and acting income.  But the Series was not a common or expected event up there, so when the Sox were allowed, late in the season, to print playoff and World Series tickets, I dutifully and promptly sent my check in for the ticket lottery.

Surprisingly, given the massive demand, I got lucky and in September was sent two tickets for what would be the sixth game if (A) the Sox even got through the playoffs and got to the Series, and (B) neither team won four of the first five games.  I was OK with that.

By the way, check the tickets -- the price on them was what I paid -- $4.00 each.  I haven't been to a World Series game since 1975, but I'm led to believe the prices have increased since then.  Perhaps you can verify that.

I actually managed to get a ticket to Game One, scalped from a Whimsey's customer for $25, and saw Boston win the first game.  The Sox, as we all know, lost the next two but tied the series at two games each with a grueling effort by Luis Tiant in Game Four.  That made a Game Six certain.

There were, as I mentioned, two tickets, up in the center-field bleachers.  As I was single at the time, I called my brother Rich, the actual published author as opposed to myself (he wrote great historical works on the US space program), and suggested he fly up and see a Series game.  He readily agreed, and arrived for what was supposed to be game day, October 18th.

It was to be a Saturday night game, which was really great, since Rich would not miss any work and could easily fly up.  It was also monsoon season, apparently.  Some time during the day, the game was called to prevent any ballplayers drowning in the outfield, and we made plans to see the game on its postponement schedule, Sunday night, instead.  My brother could fly home Monday morning.

Yeah, yeah, I'll get to the license plate.

As we all know, the rains didn't stop, and Sunday night's game was also postponed.  I had hoped my brother could stay for the now-Monday game, but he had to leave, and headed out, leaving me with an extra ticket to an actual World Series game.  I showed up at work the next morning for the lunch rush, and thought "Who might want to go with me?"

I did what any red-blooded American guy would do, and asked the best-looking cocktail waitress, even though I'm not sure she was a baseball fan.  I'm not sure she could spell "baseball."  And she was easily three inches taller than I, not that the bar is that high, if you get the idea.  But she said she'd go, and we arranged to meet up later for the evening game.

Which, as we also know, didn't happen.  The rain had stopped, but the field was a mess and not able to host a safe baseball game.  Game Six was now on for Tuesday, except the waitress was busy and I was back left with an extra ticket.  I called up my good friend and fellow MIT alum Brian, who was my accompanist and also a baseball fan.  "Four bucks", I said.  He couldn't agree fast enough.

I probably don't have to describe the game, which is running on the MLB Network a few times this coming week, billed as the "Best Game Ever" or something like that.  I can tell you that when Fred Lynn crashed into the center-field wall trying to make a catch, he crumbled in a heap and the park went dead silent.  Imagine 35,000 people in a stadium, all silent, and all you heard were maybe 3,000 transistor radios carrying the broadcast so those of us behind the wall, with no sight line, knew what was going on.  Those of you under 30 can google what a "transistor radio" is.

I can also tell you that after the ninth inning, we all stayed standing, even between innings.  I've been tense for a ball game before, and certainly since, but this went to another level, and everyone in the park knew it.  Great game.

So -- the license plate.

Back in late 1974, when Fred Lynn was coming up for a cup of coffee at the tail end of the season, he just looked so promising as a player that I thought he'd be there as a star for years.  I had wanted to get a custom license plate, and there you have it.  Until I moved from Massachusetts in 1979, that was my plate.  SOX-19.

Naturally, I brought it with me to the game and waved it around -- a lot.  When Lynn homered in the first inning, I waved it all over the place.  When Bernie Carbo (uniform number 1) homered in the bottom of the eighth to tie the game, I covered the "9" and waved it still more.  You can see the celebration in the grainy picture below after that homer -- the bright light in the crowd below the "B" in "Boston" and a dozen people right of the white banner is the license plate as I'm waving it.  And when Fisk won the game in the 12th, well,  I didn't care what number was on it.

At that point, after the Fisk homer, it was after midnight, and Brian and I were in the midst of a screaming swarm of 35,000 fans, which slowly oozed out of the park in newly-formed sections like a mitotic amoeba. I had the plate held over my head (with a tight grip, mind you), and we left, not exactly sure where we were going to head.  I mean, you didn't want to go straight home; you were in the middle of history.

And let's face it, we were hungry.  So we decided to go to Crossroads, which was a pizza and Italian-food place back then, on Beacon St. just west of Mass. Ave., that we knew would be open at 1:00 AM.  Part of the amoeba was moving in that direction, so we just sort of rode the wave, plate held high, the three blocks over to the place.

Now, while I can't certify it, it was generally thought that the place was owned by the "friends of the friends", if you get my drift.  I didn't exactly travel in those circles, so I can't be sure, but it seems like the conventional wisdom was that you didn't cross the owner or complain about the food.  Which didn't matter, since the food was at least OK.

Brian and I walked in looking for a table, and I've still got that plate held high, and people are still screaming in joy.  About ten feet inside, a guy in a suit comes over, whom I think I then realized was the owner of the place.  Or his enforcer.  "I'll give you fifty bucks for the plate", he says.

The color drains from my face, I size up the situation quickly and realize that, perhaps, this was not the time for thinking about "hmm, how would I replace the plate."  This was an offer I couldn't refuse, like for real.  I was scared and there was one course of action.

Next thing you know, I've got a crisp $50 bill in my pocket and the plate went off to Heaven knows what glories.  The bill was crisp all right, like it had been baked in the back room.  We had a pizza, Brian went home, I went back to my flat in Brighton, and that was the story.

For the record, I called DMV the next morning and told them I had "lost" a plate and needed a replacement.  "No you didn't", I was told.  "It was stolen."  I swear, that's how the conversation went.  Apparently it was a whole lot more paperwork for DMV to replace a lost plate than a stolen one.  I didn't care; it was neither lost nor stolen, but God only knows how much paperwork would be involved in replacing a plate that was "sold."

However it worked, I got a replacement and, somehow, ultimately ended up with three of the SOX-19 plates, which I still have to this day.

And a story for you.  Go Sox ... whenever.

Copyright 2020 by Robert Sutton
Like what you read here?  There are over 1,000 posts from Bob at www.uberthoughtsUSA.com, and after four years of writing a new one daily, he still posts thoughts once in a while as "visiting columns", no longer the "prolific essayist" he was through 2018, but still around.  Appearance, advertising, sponsorship and interview inquiries cheerfully welcomed at bsutton@alum.mit.edu or on Twitter at @rmosutton