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A Marriage Made In Heaven (Heaven, In This Case, Being Fenway Park)

By Jonathan David Morris

Ever since the days of George Washington—who, little known fact, owned a giant foam finger and once ate his weight in ballpark hot dogs—no true, blue-blooded American man has gone to meet his maker without first sitting behind home plate at Fenway for a Yankees-Red Sox game. A few weeks ago, my father-in-law called me with four free tickets and a chance to do just that. And not for just any Yankees-Red Sox game, either, but a final-series-of-the-season Yankees-Red Sox game—a game that may well decide which team wins the AL East and a spot in the postseason this year. Well, suffice it to say, I immediately started making funeral arrangements, prepared to come back from Boston and die a happy man—not to mention a solid American.

Only there was one problem: The game would take place Saturday, October 1, 2005. And my wife and I had already RSVP’d to go to a wedding that day.

I’ll spare you the ugly details. Yes, I pled my case. Yes, I cried like the littlest of little girls. I even suggested a baseball/wedding doubleheader, since the game is early, the wedding is at night, and I’m convinced I can drive the three hundred and thirty-something miles between MA and PA in just a shade under an hour. (Hey, the way I drive?) But in the end, as good as the Yanks and Sox are, my wife has a better arm than the ace on either team’s pitching staff—which means I won’t be going to the game that day, because she’ll be dragging me to those blessed nuptials instead.

Well, I like this couple that’s getting married. Really, I do. I’m happy for them. But for my sake, for the sake of my country—and, indeed, for the sake of every true, blue-blooded American man ever to stock up on so many beers before the seventh inning that he couldn’t remember how the last game he attended ended—I’d be remiss if I didn’t come up with a list of at least ten last-ditch efforts to avoid the wedding and head for the game. So here’s what I’ve come up with.

Plan A (as in, A Plan That’s Guaranteed To Work): Cry.

Actually, tried it already. In the third paragraph, remember? Yeah, didn’t work.

Plan B: Develop a sudden, inconsolable fear of weddings.

This one’s got a shot, actually. Well, provided my wife’s never watched a single “sudden, inconsolable fear of weddings” episode of Friends (from which there over a thousand to choose).

Plan C: Suffer a “pulled groin” and go on the 15-day disabled list.

Ah, the nagging groin injury—the oldest trick in the baseball player’s book. On the surface, this plan seems perfect, since guys on the DL don’t really have to travel with the team ("the team” in this case being the lawfully wedded tandem of Mr. & Mrs. Jonathan David Morris). But I have some reservations about it. One, how’s a guy go about pulling his groin anyway? I knew a guy who pulled his groin in his sleep once. It didn’t sound too comfortable. And two, a pulled groin would probably end up hurting my On-Base Percentage. With the kind of year I’m having, do I really want to risk it? (Just keep in mind, guys: I’m taking one for the team here. Weddings and baseball have been at odds for centuries. If you’re married, sooner or later you’re going through this.)

Plan D (for Dugout): “Accidentally” choke to death on a package of Big League Chew.

The package itself, I mean. Not just the crappy gum inside it. Actually, I’m not sure how I’d spin my own death into a victory of any sort—much less an excuse to go to a Yankees-Red-Sox game—so never mind this. The State Troopers would be all over me anyway. What am I supposed to do—drive to the ballpark dead?

Plan E: Take a “shortcut” to the wedding, which involves driving from our house in Pennsylvania through New Jersey, into New York, all the way up to Massachusetts, where we’ll “stop for gas” at Fenway in Boston, refuel for four hours, eat some nachos, then head back down through New York, into New Jersey, and back into Pennsylvania, where we’ll arrive at the wedding with just enough time to hear my wife say, “Hey, that wasn’t a shortcut,” as we watch the wedding hall wait staff stack the chairs and fold up the tables to conclude our broadcast day.

Of course, this plan would depend on whether or not there’s a gas station at Fenway. I wouldn’t know. The last time I went there, I wasn’t old enough to drive.

Plan F: Get myself uninvited to the wedding.

Nah. Too easy. In fact, after this article, you’ve got to imagine I’ve already done it.

Plan G: Get one of those other Jonathan David Morrises to attend the wedding for me.

You know, one of those copycat JDMs I spoke about in my column last week? It doesn’t really matter which one I send. As long as he’s a JDM with dark hair, a chinstrap beard, and a sunburn on half his face after falling asleep on the beach without remembering to turn his chair last weekend, I don’t think anyone would know the difference. A glass-is-half-empty attitude wouldn’t hurt, either. And a penchant for pilsners. Oh, and maybe if he complained about missing the game all evening, that would quell suspicions, too.

Plan H: I have nothing to wear.

Of course, the truth is I have a whole closet full of nothing to wear. But, hey, I’ve also got a 10-pack of multi-colored cigarette lighters from the grocery store. For free tickets, I would gladly torch my wardrobe shirt-by-shirt, pant-leg-by-pant-leg, till everything’s gone, straight down to my t-shirts, socks, and underwear. Then I’ll gladly offer to go to the wedding, with the caveat that I’ll have no choice but to go entirely naked, except for my worn-out Adidas sandals, which are missing most of those little knobs that conform to the shape of your feet, since I scrunch my toes all day long. Oh, and a belt. This is basically a foolproof plan. No one goes to a wedding naked. And if they do, it usually starts with, “I think I’m having that dream again, honey. Pinch me. No, not there.” But naked at a baseball game? No problem. Most people leave their inhibitions at the turnstiles anyway. Besides, fine upstanding men like Rob Schneider—he of Sensitive Naked Man fame—do it all the time. (Has it really come to this? Am I really holding up Rob Schneider as a model of exemplary naked behavior? Okay, forget about torching my wardrobe. That’s a bad idea.)

Plan 9/11 from Outer Space: Play the terrorism card.

Weddings are crowded places. And as we all know, crowded places are targets for terrorism. We’ll be much safer at a Yankees-Red Sox game.

And, finally, Plan J: Tell my wife that the game is Friday evening, then let her sleep all day Friday. While she’s sleeping, paint the windows to look like it’s daytime, so when she wakes up Friday evening she thinks that it’s Friday morning—and time to head up to Boston. This way, we’ll get there early and get a good parking spot.

The only thing I’d have to contend with is explaining why it’s light out once we sit down for a Friday “night” game. I thought about telling her the BoSox got a sweet stadium deal to move out and play in Alaska, where they don’t believe in daytime. But something tells me she’ll figure it out when we see the sign that says: “Welcome to Massachusetts.”

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