My third Bud Light was about to exit my urethra, and if I didn't talk to a man about a horse soon I would be tinkling up in the Dunkin Dugout.
The sun shined brightly on the bleachers, and I was part of a mass exodus for the men's room as Beckett whiffed Aubrey Huff.
I'm not sure what the score was at that point. For a brief moment in time, I don't think any of us did. It was time to drain the vein.
About a dozen of the Bleacher Creatures made their way out of Section 121 all with the same sense of purpose. The Dirty Dozen, as we would affectionately be known, bypassed the mile-long beer line, but each committed to refueling after we tapped a kidney.
One by one, we took our positions at the beautiful porcelain fixtures which adorned the Fenway Walls. With our barn doors open and the Sox up by a deuce, we began to talk of First Place, while we eliminated Number One.
The tall and red faced man next to me, who I'll call Johnson, looked over at me and smiled kindly. I have to admit made me feel a bit uncomfortable. Not because he longed to sneak a peak, but because he chose to speak to me while I Freed Willy.
But when I heard what he spoke of, I felt uncomfortable no longer. He spoke of a friend of ours that all of us held in high esteem. No male enters Fenway's Hallowed Halls (aka the Watering Hole) without speaking of the Trough.
For those of you who never had the pleasure, the Trough was to men at Fenway what Niagara Falls is to lovers. It is a must see for all those who love being a guy.
The trough reeked of soiled urine and ran constantly. Indefinitely. I assume the trough ran during away games and during winters away from the park. There is nearly a scent in nature that recreates the smell of the Trough. And hardly a topic in Wikipedia that brings a smile more quickly to the face of anyone with XY chromosomes.
The trough reeked of ammonia and had mounds of some of the most beautiful locks of hair known to man littering its rusted edge.
The trough has peaked up at The Iron Man, The Splendid Splinter, Mick the Stick and Pesky's Pole. And has heard conversations about famous Red Sox and Yankees players, too.
The Trough did its duty while we did ours, through Yankee and Red Sox brawls and through World Championship droughts. There was never a drought at the trough. Always ready to keep it's customers flowing.
The beauty of the trough was it allowed no privacy. I could peak over at the dude next to me out of the corner of my eye and he at me and no words needed to be exchanged—we just knew what the other was thinking.
I'll never forget the day during a game between the White Sox (also known ironically as the Hose). I looked over at a tall man who claimed to be from Jamaica but looked like he was from Nantucket, and marveled at the tattoo that adorned his mighty Boa. I noticed it said W-E-N-D-Y.
I asked the tall and powerful man of his dink ink and he said in a beautiful Montego Bay accent. "No mon...don't say Wendy. Says Welcome to Jamaica Have A Nice Day." I glanced down and never felt more insignificant.
The trough has been replaced now by 66 of the most beautiful porcelain urinals you'll ever see. Clean and pristine. Alone and isolated. The conversations are less common now as we find ourselves a bit more private. I shiver slightly when I think of her and wonder what I will talk to my son about when we go to a game.
I can only hope and pray that the Trough has a special place in the Fenway Hall of Fame. If She doesn't...I'll be really pissed.