Dodging Sox BY SAM PFEIFLE

It was a Monday night, hotter than Hell, and the lowly Reds were in town for a three-game series of pre-All Star break baseball. There’s got to be some tickets to be had at Fenway, right? It was certainly worth heading down to the ballpark and giving it a go.

The throng was amazing. Two innings into the game, and just walking the block from Kenmore Square to Ted Williams way was like running underwater, a study in slow motion. Still, the ticket hawkers were able to spot us like we had "need tickets" signs around our necks.

"How much?"

"These are great seats," — they’re always great seats — "I’ll give them to you for 75 each."

I was aghast. It was 30 minutes after the start of the game. "I’ll give you 20 bucks each," I countered. He walked away like I was dead. Further, with each successive guy who came up to offer us seats, the first guy came back to harp over our shoulders: "Guy, they want to give you 20 bucks a ticket." Then he’d make one of those throat-slashing gestures.

Dang. You’d think the guy would take a little low-balling in stride, but I guess I offended him. We walked all the way past Fenway and two blocks further on Brookline Avenue, finding $40 a ticket the best price we could get, and that for standing-room tickets. We began to despair. That’s too steep for standing room, right?

But the gal I was with had never been to a game, and we’d driven all this way . . .

"Hey, you still need tickets? I want to get out of here." The offended guy was coming around.

I caved. "We’ll give you 30 each."

"Alright," he said, "you go take the girl into the game and show her a good time." I gave him the money then looked at the tickets. One was in the left-field grandstand. The other was for the right-field grandstand. I looked back up at Johnny Scalper.

"Hey, those will get you in the door. Get outta here." I was skeptical we’d even get in the door, but, after a cursory check of our bags, we were in.

After grabbing what would be our only six-dollar beer of the night, we popped right up the ramp to the area back of the plate — to get a lay of the land. Fenway was mobbed. Mobbed. It’s like this every night now, I guess, but it’s still amazing to stare for minutes looking for empty seats and not find any. But there’s always the right-field grandstand. The seats suck, facing center field and sitting behind more poles than the UN, so they’re never really full (I hoped). Ducking back underneath, we cruised over to Section 9, finding one of our seats, and grabbing a pair of aisle seats not far away.

"Not bad," we thought — till four guys full of beers cruised up and sent us on our way. Even the standing room at the top of the stairs was packed, two levels deep with people lined both along the wall and up against the rail, making for a one-person-wide alley in which to walk further and further from the action.

Again despair set in. It was too hot to stand the whole time, and we were missing pitches left and right (just like Kevin Millar). But then, there they were: four aisle seats in Section 6, about 20 rows down from the top. Not ideal, but we made for them and sat down. A woman looked at us slightly askance, but paid us no mind.

We watched. We cheered. Manny hit a dinger that bounced off of the right-fielder’s glove and into the stands. The seats were ours, and we even began to relax by the sixth inning. Behind us, a girl chatted animatedly with a friend she’d discovered:

"Yeah, I was here at four o’clock this

morning to get these seats. I’m so lucky to have got them!"

Sam Pfeifle can be reached at sam@phx.com