Baseball isn’t Boring

When I decided to take my son to Boston, I scheduled in a Red Sox game at historic Fenway park. Shayne loves baseball, but I have always wanted to see the green monster for myself. It seemed important to see the oldest stadium in America before someone decides bigger is better and goes for shiny and new.

I hope that never happens, because Fenway stadium was built for everyone to see the game. I was so excited to be there, but the tension of the day was sitting in my neck and shoulders. And super hard to shake away.

Shayne was at war with his voices all day. I have said a million times that I can’t hear them, but I know them and they were out for blood.

They arrived on the subway. The conductor announced that the train was staying in place and we could get off and get the next train. So we did and when we settled in the next car, I looked over at Shayne and he had his head in his hands. He does that when he is trying to control the noise. Trying to control himself. Then the train stopped again and said it was now an express train and unless we were headed to a particular spot, get off. We got off and I could tell the voices had things to say about two train departures.

We were in the heart of Northeastern campus and there was a cafe. Sometimes food helps, so I suggested we eat breakfast. That was a good move.

Shayne told me that the Isabella Stuart Gardener museum was only three quarters of a mile away, so we decided to walk.

Seeing the Isabella Stuart Garner Museum was my morning plan. A friend had recommended it and I read about it and thought it sounded interesting. Gardner was an art collector in the 1800’s and amassed a giant fortune in art around the world. She curated a museum in her house and stipulated in her will that the museum not be changed and requested it to continue to be open for the public to experience. It’s also the site of the biggest unsolved art heist in the world.

I was expecting an old brownstone or Victorian mansion with funky couches and colorful paintings, but the Gardner building was immense, bigger than schools I have worked in. A modern lobby, cafeteria, gift shop, and reading lounge were added to the original house, so the space occupies a city block. Shayne went into the lounge and laid down. I didn’t really know what to do. I paid for his ticket, so he could be in the lounge, but it wasn’t really meant for napping, but I also know sleep is really the only natural way to combat the voices. So I left him and went to look at the museum.

The museum is something that cannot be described. The art is categorized by how Gardner organized it. No labels or time periods. It is themed–but themes of Isabella’s chosing. I just can’t imagine the wealth and traveling it must have taken to amass the collection. Pieces from Asia and Africa had to be shipped and were made of stone and heavy woods. It felt other worldly, like being in an ancient crypt. I really tried to just be in the experience, even though I know Shayne was in the lounge. Maybe sleeping. Maybe watching Mission Impossible. Maybe losing his shit.

I checked on him once. He was dead asleep, sprawled on the couch. It reminded me of a homeless person asleep in the middle of the sidewalk with meager possessions gathered close like armor. I often think Shayne would be on the street if he didn’t have me.

I finished looking at the exhibit, checked out the gift shop and even made a print in the maker’s space, before going back to the lounge. Shayne was gone of course.

He was okay though and had taken a look at the exhibit a bit and said we should just walk to Fenway because he knew the way. So we did and he chatted with his voices all the way. Not aloud, but he gestured with his hands, and sometimes made expressions and had bursts of laughter. Once upon a time he was a gifted physical actor–it’s like that, only now he acts for an internal audience.

I am used to it and I don’t care. I am aware how it looks in public. He controls it pretty well, but sometimes people will take a second look. They will catch my eye and look away and all my mama bear instincts will rise inside my chest.

I told him we could leave if he needed to and he said he would be okay. It was kind of rough watching him try to hold it together. I had my own inner battle of wanting to make it easier for him and my own desire to enjoy the game.

Meanwhile the Sox were losing their battle on the field. I was impressed at the happiness of the crowd. Most people hung to the end and sang Sweet Caroline and had a rousing good time. We hung in there too. Shayne held it together and I got to see a game at Fenway.

On the way back to the hotel, Shayne asked me if people noticed the voices. I shrugged and said, “Probably not. Most people are focused on themselves. Especially at ball games.”

We walked most of the way back to the hotel. The night air felt good and we were in no hurry. I thought about my day of art and baseball and watching my son struggle with mental illness.

Sometimes I wish I could be like Isabella Gardner–not so much the rich legacy part, but the do-what-she wants part. But she also lost her son and her husband. I don’t know what her life was like. Maybe all the stuff she collected was to fill an emptiness. Maybe that’s how she kept going.

That’s how baseball works too. The guys go out on the field and play, even when there is no prayer of winning. The fans show up and cheer because there is always the hope of one great play.

And in my own way, that’s how I handle Shayne’s voices. I keep showing up, keep pushing through, keep seeing the things worth seeing.

Maybe that’s my legacy–not that I fixed anything, but I kept walking with hope in my pocket.