Bonds, Sosa, and me -- an inside-the-park homer's view

You'll probably never see Sammy Sosa at your office staff meeting. Unless, of course, you work for the Boston Red Sox.

For the past year, I have been part of the game-day operations staff at Fenway Park. I have loved baseball for as long as I can remember, introduced to the game in 1967 by my favorite aunt, a mercurial Red Sox fan who taught me to love my team even when it made my heart hurt.

Now, 40 years later, I am an ordained Episcopal minister, a vocation that shares some similarities with baseball. Both are journeys of faith, full of inexplicable false steps and glorious moments of transformation. How my aunt would have beamed if she knew I would return four decades later to the sanctuary of my youth, but this time, with those emblematic red socks stitched on my own jersey.

Most of my family and friends assume my job is much more glamorous than it actually is. Unbeknownst to the Fenway faithful, the game-day staff gathers 2 1/2 hours before the first pitch to review security concerns, to learn of pregame ceremonies and events, and to receive our assignments for the day.

About 100 ushers, greeters, ticket takers, and security and guest services staff come together for this ritual, meeting just outside our locker room in an area tucked away in the back corner of the third-base side. This corridor is inaccessible to the public, roped off about halfway down the ground-level concourse; it also leads to the visiting team's locker room and batting cage.

The same gaggle of older men are positioned at this entry point every game, simultaneously guarding the gate while kibitzing with reporters. As we pass, we exchange handshakes, hugs, and chatter. Some of these men have worked at Fenway almost as long as I've been alive.

By the time we arrive at the park, the players are already there, strolling the concourse, giving interviews, or heading to and from the batting cage. Some of the organization's strictest rules pertain to staff-player interaction. In this baseball-crazed town, privacy and normalcy are virtually nonexistent for players. In an effort to provide these things, the Red Sox brass forbids staff members from asking for autographs, posing for pictures, or initiating interaction with players and coaches.

While it's difficult not to have my head snap when Alex Rodriguez or Randy Johnson saunter by, I can see the benefit of this discipline. In these quiet pregame moments, the players are strikingly authentic. They are not squinting into a camera lens, carefully parrying questions from the media. They are not being critiqued for a base-running gaffe or an errant throw. They are just men -- famous, talented, and wealthy men, no doubt -- but ordinary men just the same.

So, when Sammy Sosa emerged from the batting cage one afternoon this season while we were getting our final assignments, we weren't terribly surprised when he decided to play a practical joke on my boss. He snuck up behind her, positioning himself just over her right shoulder and out of her peripheral vision. He listened to her instructions and nodded ruefully as we all just stared.

Finally, after realizing our eyes had shifted, she turned around to discover the famous player playfully mocking her. Before she could stammer a response, he broke into a wide grin, patted her on the shoulder, and loped off toward his locker room, an interlude that took all of 15 seconds.

I didn't cheer for Sosa that night, but I remember that moment every time I see him - one fleeting glimpse of the mischievous side that makes him so likable.

Not all players inspire such a reaction. Barry Bonds and the San Francisco Giants came to Fenway in mid-June. The furor over the series could only have been inspired by the recalcitrant Mr. Bonds. Like everyone else, I was curious to get a glimpse of baseball's greatest pariah. I would not have to wait too long.

Staffers are required to be at their posts two hours before game time, just prior to the opening of the gates. Although a few fans stream through the turnstiles early, most wait until the game has nearly started before settling into their seats. We pass the time sprucing up our area, sharing tidbits with the early arrivals about the history and architecture of Fenway, and snapping photographs for exuberant fans. In many ways, this interaction defines my role at the park, and I never tire of the pregame banter. Indeed, it embodies the pulse of Red Sox Nation.

My post is high above the first-base line, in Section 9 of the State Street Pavilion. Seats on this level range from $90 to $150, with seats directly behind home plate topping $200 per game. The pavilion offers a breathtaking view, one most fans will never get to experience.

And it was from this vantage point that I first spied Bonds. Never before had I seen such a beehive in front of the visitors dugout. Not for the arrival of Ichiro and his deliciously anticipated matchup with Daisuke Matsuzaka. Not for the return of Trot Nixon, a dirt dog and longtime fan favorite during his years in a Red Sox uniform. No, Bonds eclipsed them all, striding onto the field amid popping flashbulbs and jeers.

I had assumed he would head directly to the batting cage. But instead, he headed to the outfield, standing alone in the long shadow the left-field light pole cast across the field. While his teammates, gathered in groups of two and three, chatted, and snagged balls that dropped nearby, no one approached Bonds. He stood both in the limelight and in the shadows, a solitary figure in a sea of activity.

When he made his way to the batting cage, the dynamic didn't change. Even in the close quarters of home plate, Bonds remained isolated from his teammates. In those 20 minutes, away from the cameras and scrutiny of fans, I saw for myself the harsh reality of Bonds's everyday life. For all the home runs and the accolades, his pursuit (and now possession) of baseball's most treasured record seemed utterly devoid of joy, a terribly lonesome journey by a man I now pitied more than scorned.

At the end of each home game, most game-day workers take home $50 of after-tax earnings. We have often been on our feet for more than six hours, buffeted by the cold winds of April and the merciless heat of August. While most fans are clogging the Kenmore subway stop after the last out, we tend to stay a bit longer, shepherding the last few fans to the exits and closing up shop. Soon the lights dim to a faint glow as a hush falls over the park. This manufactured "dusk" feels almost as magical as the game itself.

As in most corporations, working for the Red Sox reveals plenty of politics, turf wars, and egos straining at the bit. But Red Sox baseball remains as pure and as compelling as in the days of Fisk, Conigliaro, Pesky, and Ruth. It is the game that brings us back over and over again. It is the game that has mysteriously become our elixir, a fountain of youth that reminds us of how it used to be, how we used to be, and how we hope to feel again.

October is coming. My heart can hardly stand it.

The Rev. Anne Gardner is the chaplain and director of community service at Endicott College. She can be reached at agardner2005@post.harvard.edu.