In its first salvos the Red Sox have regaled us with their "modest" observance of the 100th birthday of their "lyric little bandbox of a ball yard." For better or worse, we are assured the hosannas have only just begun, although whatever else they intend to cook up will have trouble competing with the opening number.
Even hardhearted New Yorkers were charmed by the quaint parade of their ancients and honorables marching out of the nooks, crannies, and closets of the old relic. Too bad there isn't a corn field in the neighborhood out of which they could have sprung the ghosts of Foxx, Grove, Wood, and even the Grey Eagle, Speaker, and the Mighty Masher, the Babe Himself. No doubt Dr. Charles Steinberg, the alleged maestro of these gaudy moments, gave that notion considerable thought.
There is no fear here that in the course of this season-long festival the Red Sox will miss paying tribute to many of the more wonderful things they've done for us over the ages. It's the lesser and more colorful if not quite so sacrosanct details that one worries could get lost in the shuffle and that would be a shame.
So here, if only to balance the record a bit, are some quaint factoids and gritty details having to do with the lusty saga of your beloved ballpark and the wild and crazy kids who have cavorted there that might otherwise go unrecalled. We'll start in our quite informal historical rendering with some observations on the early years and offer further installments on subsequent era's as the celebration continues throughout the summer. Should be fun and do hope it adds a bit of spice to the on-going bombast.
Beginning with Fenway Park itself and those "glorious" early years
The fact is that in its original form it wasn't much to brag about and rather a low-budget job that bears hardly the faintest resemblance to what stands today. Actually, the new and old Yankee Stadiums look more alike than the original and modern Fenways. Tom Yawkey's major overhaul in 1933 was no mere refurbishment but a total "rebuilding:" required to be much more extensive than intended by the fire that interrupted the process.
So, what we're actually commemorating this year is the 100th anniversary of "the original site." But it's essentially only the 79th anniversary of the ballpark itself which has been further revised, re-renovated, expanded, and tinkered with many times since Yawkey laid the groundwork in 1933. The new owners don't like to emphasize this preferring that you believe they alone deserve credit for preserving the place, however doubtful that distinction might be. But modifications and improvements done in the early and late '40s (lights), mid-seventies and late-eighties (boxes, press box, walls, and deck) were more crucial to its fundamental maintenance and modernization than the more recent upgrades and frills.
Maybe the most fetching feature of the original was that silly business of "Duffy's cliff" out in left field. It was a dirt slope leading up to a much shorter (25 foot) wall. Quite difficult to navigate, it was named for the nimble Duffy Lewis who played it stylishly as a charter member of the fabled "Hooper-Speaker-Lewis" outfield of early times. Alas in later years, when the team went into the pits, less gracious left-fielders like the immortal Smead Jolley had an awful time with the cliff. The affable Smead could climb it okay but he would invariably fall en route and roll down the thing. Without the ball, of course. It would have been interesting to see how Ted Williams might have played the cliff.
Certainly when the Taylor ownership produced the original park at the Fenway site it was a significant improvement over the glorified playground that had hitherto served them but subsequent owners were not impressed. Joe Lannin's champions of 1915 and '16 moved their World Series dates to the Braves' equally new but larger and more comfortable home up Comm Ave featuring 50 percent more seating capacity.
Effectively, within just three years Fenway was spurned which would seem to be an early hit on the legend of the place. When first opened fans were allowed to stand on the ball field and there could be three thousand of them hovering behind Tris Speaker in centerfield at a big game; hence the overflow crowds of the 1912 post-season epic. But once patrons were banned from occupying the field of play, tiny Fenway was in trouble. In the 1918 World Series average attendance was little more than 20,000.
That was, of course, arguably the ugliest "fall classic" ever played aside from the next year's which was bagged outright by gamblers. Indeed, the entire 1918 season had been understandably upstaged by World War I's last throes and there had even been talk of cancelling the World Series after the regular season was suspended a month early. In the end they played, but the mood was sullen. To make a long and unpleasant story short, when the Red Sox and Cubs realized their Series' bonuses would be historically and pathetically small they threatened to strike. Needless to say in a world haunted by a terrible war and its brutal by-products this did not go over well.