DanMargarita.com

My fellow baseball enthusiast Rick and I had estimated the drive to be 6.5 to 7 hours long. We had grand ideas of leaving Stoneham around 10:00-10:30 and spending time in Baltimore checking out the Inner Harbor and The Babe Ruth Birthplace and Museum. I'd also planned on writing a novel by now. Planning and execution are two different things.

Circumstances kept us from leaving Stoneham until noon, our first stop being a trip to Dunkin' Donuts. We decided the best route was to take the Mass Pike to Route 84, which has been recommended by frequent travelers to N.Y. as the quickest route. However, men being men, neither of us thought to bring a road map. "We'll figure it out as we go" we reasoned. Thus we got a little lost on our "shortcut" which cost us some time.

You can't drive seven hours without a break, so we stopped in Brewster, N.Y. for a quick lunch at a place called "Norm's." Unfortunately, our waiter moved with less speed than George Wendt and our quick lunch turned out to take about thirty minutes.

It's a pretty straight shot down I-95 to Baltimore. You get to enjoy the celebrity rest stops on 95 and the New Jersey Turnpike. You pass the Vince Lombardi Service Area, where you aren't allowed any water, the Walt Whitman Service Area, where you stop to read poetry and the Thomas Edison Service Area, which ironically, runs on coal.

Cruising along pretty good, we hit a toll that's backed up a couple of miles and takes about thirty minutes to get through. We realize that our hopes of getting there early have long since faded.

As we approach Baltimore, the pre-game introductions are announced on the radio. We've convinced ourselves that because it's an ESPN game, the first pitch won't be 'till 8:15-8:20, but the game starts as promised at 8:07 and we're still driving there.

There's one final parking spot at a lot next to Baltimore's football stadium, at least when the security guards move their car there's a spot, and as I get out of the car, a gust of bitter wind proves a good reminder to put on the extra pair of socks, boots, hooded sweatshirt, jacket, winter gloves and stocking cap that I brought. I realize that I'm more warmly dressed than I was the last time I shoveled my driveway.

Boston weather forecasters predict that the game time starting temperature will be 39 degrees and the game ending temperature will be 35 degrees. That feels like wishful thinking.

On my way to Camden Yards I genuflect to the statue of the late, great John Unitas out in front of the football stadium.

As we rush to get to the stadium we hear the hometown fans cheer and then hear the announcement that Javy Lopez has just hit his first home run as a Baltimore Oriole. Going through the gates, I see Red Sox ace Pedro Martinez get slapped around for a couple more runs on the TV's at the concession stands.

Camden Yards is a fairly new ballpark that is designed in the style of the old ballparks but with all the modern amenities. The concourse under the stands is pretty wide, but on this evening amounts to a wind tunnel that NASA engineers would envy. Oddly enough, the concourse between the box seats and the grandstand seats is even more narrow than the one at Fenway Park.

In a nod to old-tyme baseball, the bleachers in right field are green wooden benches, bringing a touch of Rec Park to Baltimore.

Perhaps the best known feature is the brick warehouse beyond the right field bleachers. The first floor contains restaurants, pubs and a souvenir store. A pretty neat place to be---unless you've paid $40 to watch a ballgame.

Our seats are box seats down the third base line and seem a bit crowded, but that's probably because we're all wearing three layers of clothes.

The Sox get a run to close the gap to 3-1 as Pedro Martinez settles down, but he later gives way to Mike Timlin (six months too late) who let's the Orioles blow the game open and the Sox lose 7-2.

The next day Rick drops me off at Penn Station. Unlike it's modern counterpart in New York, this is a small, simple and classically styled old train station, whereas N.Y.'s Penn Station is big, ugly and confusing.

While reading my paper I look up and make eye contact with a tall, well-dressed balding man that I immediately recognize as Baltimore Oriole great Cal Ripken Jr., who is traveling with his younger, shorter, but equally well-dressed brother Bill and couple of others.

Ripken is a baseball God in Baltimore, but other than one woman who runs up and takes his picture, nobody bothers him.

The train ride home is long, but relaxing and allows me to catch up on some reading. Meanwhile Rick has continued driving on to Pittsburgh to watch the Pirates open their season.

And you thought I was a "fanatic."