It’s certain that no athletic arena has inspired so many literary fancies as Fenway Park, the Boston ballyard that this weekend began its second century as the home of the Red Sox.

John Updike described it as “a lyric little bandbox of a ballpark.” I’d say it would be more accurate to call it a dump.

In fairness, my experience with Fenway is limited to one game more than a decade ago, and since then a new ownership group has sunk a lot of money into upgrading the place.

And yet, no matter what money and love is lavished on Fenway, it isn’t getting any roomier. Fenway Park will always be cramped, always have bad sightlines, always be uncomfortable.

And it will always carry its history. Fenway turned 100 last week, and no other stadium or arena in American sport has lasted so long. Wrigley Field in Chicago is a couple years younger; no other place is close.

Fenway was part of the wave of steel and concrete facilities that major league teams started building in the early 20th century. Before Shibe Park in Philadelphia and Forbes Field in Pittsburgh, teams played on fields with wood benches and fences— throw ‘em up in a day or so, play in them ’til they burned down.

Most of the new wave of parks lasted about a half century or so. A new wave of stadia arrived in the 1970s — dreary multi-use concrete donuts, most of them with artificial turf and symmetrical fences, fully enclosed and indistinguishable from each other.

This is the period when the romance of Fenway flowered. You stepped inside the stadium in Cincinnati, you could be inside the stadium in Pittsburgh or Philly. You stepped inside Fenway, there was no place else you could be.

That sense of place — the idea that a ballpark should be unique, should be idiosyncratic, should embrace its surroundings rather than cut them off — is a significant part of the new wave of parks that replaced the cookie cutters.

Target Field, and most of the new wave of parks, borrowed that from Fenway, and from Wrigley and the rest of the parks of that era. Fortunately, it skipped the cramped quarters and the vision-blocking beams.

One can go to Fenway and appreciate the history. Ted Williams stood in that batters’ box, Babe Ruth pitched from that mound, Tris Speaker patrolled that outfield. It’s the one place left where Joe DiMaggio hit a homer.

But I used to go to 20-plus games a year at the Metrodome, and came to hate it for its creature-comfort flaws. And in that respect, Fenway is worse.

Less is more (money)

Another thing Fenway taught today’s ballpark designers:  Smaller is better.

The cookie-cutters could generally hold 50,000 or more fans. The trend in the retro parks is to have less than 40,000 seats.

Why? Fewer seats mean scarce seats, and scarcity drives up prices.

The old Cleveland Stadium could hold more than 70,000 people, and nobody brought season tickets. Why bother? There were always seats available. When Jacobs Field replaced “the Mistake by the Lake,” the capacity was roughly halved, and the place sold out every day for years.

The Red Sox have been chronic contenders for almost 50 years, and winning fuels ticket sales. But having a small supply of tickets fuels the price.

It’s always about the money.



Edward Thoma is a Free Press staff writer. He is at 344-6377 or at ethoma@mankatofreepress.com. He also has a baseball blog at www.mankatofreepress.com.