A bag of Boston Baked Beans and black licorice in a New Balance Backpack. We are wearing whatever red we can find and we look like a few weird hitchhikers. The horn of the train signals the beginning of the best of times. The Amtrak is ready for us. We find that golden seat on the train, the family seats.  We have our legs spread out and phones ringing as the conductor comes down and collects our tickets. I attempt to sneak my feet onto my mother’s parallel seat to get maximum comfort, but that gets shot down with a look that stops this innocent act. We pass Woburn and Haverhill, but I could honestly care less. Just another stop.

After 2 walks to the bathroom because I love to walk up and down the aisle, I slump back into my chair and take out my phone. After some gameplay that feels like five minutes, we pull into North Station and I walk by the flattened, black circles of gum and god knows what. My family likes to walk, so a cab anywhere is a no every time.
We walk to Chinatown swiftly and go to the double decker restaurant, where Asian-American waiters in red vests wheel around the wonders of Dim-Sum and Chinese culture on shiny metal carts. We take a round table and are surrounded by what seems like the whole Chinatown community. Now for the degrading part of the meal.

”May I have a fork, please?” I mutter.
”You would like fork?! Let me get you fork!” the waiter replies.

Except, he doesn’t just reply, he publicly announces it in front of the whole restaurant.  I can see the little girl playing on her iPad look up and smirk. It’s times like these I wished I knew how to use chopsticks. After 5 minutes, he comes out with the fork of embarrassment held high. Now that that’s over, it is time for the best part, eating. We rack up a $52.00 bill and are completely satisfied by the food.

Our card is stamped for each item, and before we go to the front, I decide that I want another pork bun thing. My dad asks our server, who gives us the raised eyebrow. Naturally, my dad starts talking louder and using his hands, as if that would help someone in his situation. After a minute and a half of pointing at carts and hand gestures, the waiter calls in for reinforcements. The manager shows up, and after 5 minutes of more hand gestures and dialogue, he blurts,”Oh, you want pork steam bun, not steam pork bun.” After eating the pork steam bun, we pay up front and leave. The walk back to the subway is hard and it feels like a marathon. I know that very soon I will have to go to the bathroom.

After getting through the turnstiles of death again in the subway, we finally arrive at Kenmore Station. Now it is time to scalp for tickets. I wait with my mother and brother nervously as my father scalps tickets off fat bald guy in outdated Pedroia shirt. I eavesdrop and hear the fat bald man say,”Ya killin’ me here, man!” Mission accomplished. We have tickets.

We walk across the bridge below the ginormous CITGO sign with all the other fans. Now for a few more turnstiles. The moment of truth. Ticket accepted. Thank god. You can never tell whether they’ll enter into the system or not. A hop skip and a jump down Yawkey way and we are in the stadium below the bleachers. We find our seats and have an incredible view. After $25 worth of American food, I leave the game and for some reason, I'm still hungry.
We walk the same way, but this time there are the artists and musicians. The homeless men banging on their home depot drums, making money just to buy food. I love how proficient they are at it, and can’t help but wonder if they made a few soundtracks with their beats if they would sell on iTunes. I spot the most coveted spot for streetside singers, the stairs leading down to the subway. This guy shows up early and actually has CDs ready. He will make some money tonight. After getting by the turnstiles of death with all the other Sox fans, we pack onto the subway. To the North End. We need a place to eat before the Amtrak arrives.

We have 45 minutes and late night is not the best time to look for a seat at a nice place. Either you can wait in line 50 minutes for some less costly food, or spend $200 at the nicest place in town. Normally we find a place for pasta and enjoy ourselves, but today the lines were long and it was hard to find a seat anywhere. We go into a fancy place and order two chicken parmesans-$44. I could eat all the food in the Chinese restaurant for that. After a while, we do what any people would do when we are sitting in a restaurant with only 9 others: eavesdrop. My mother and I lock into this nice African American couple and two Caucasian men. My brother and father are in conversation about something totally irrelevant. I, however was paying attention to this mysterious and very built African-American who just got up to go to the bathroom. He looks like a Sox player.

”Is he a Red Sox player?”  I ask my family.
“How would he get out that fast?”
He returns to the table. The two Caucasian men are buttering up this guy like popcorn at the movies.
“Can you just take the lobster out of the shell, please?” they ask.
I figure they are either very rich or working for someone very rich.
”Everybody wants you. New York, anyone. You can get the money,”  they say.

I know something is up. Just then, #2 says the name Mookie! Mookie!, I think to myself, it is really him. My family traces back to their Norwegian roots and refuse to say hi. My father says that I know who he is and am more qualified to talk to him. Mother and brother are playing the “too shy” card, a common move. We are walking out the door and i decide to walk towards the table.

I say,”Are you Mookie Betts?”
“Yea, I am.”
I reply, ”Tough loss.”
“Yea it was”, He replied.

I ask for a picture. My brother hops in. We take the worst looking selfie ever. Mouth full Mookie and my crappy smirk is just a recipe for disaster. I thank him and look at my masterpiece. I took that way too fast. Even though I look like an idiot, it goes on Instagram anyway. After the funniest and coolest moment ever, we walk to Amtrak and wait what feels like forever in the subway along with the other late nighters and the one homeless man on the bench. The ride home I attempt to put my feet on my mothers chair, but she has beat me to it. We attempt to sleep on the way home, but soon we are back from the city to our little town of Exeter. I can’t wait to get home and see the greatest thing in the universe, my dog. She is happy to see us. Her tails wags with great excitement and she lets out a gleeful bark. I love to reminisce upon the grandest time I have ever had when baseball, Boston and food collide.