Fenway Park. Excitement in the city of Boston as the citizens of Beantown prepare to host an all star game. The game itself is on Tuesday, but I am there early. The Bosox have a weekend series with the Tigers and I will take in a game or two before the Midseason Classic. I'll use the rest of the time to study my Learn to Listen notes. Preparation for Dee.

I hope to see the All-Star game of course, but do not know if the Spirit will let me see it. Who knows where she'll be taking me?

CC is under-represented. Nifty Downstreet is the starting center fielder, and Nicky Skipper made the squad-- a first for him. But Jamal Toosley finished well back of the big names at first, and Bee Jacquez had no chance of making it at short. Tony Bonifante, Dunham, Funston-- none of them made it either. The composition of the team gave our fans plenty to squawk about: too many Indians, not enough Champs.

I like Boston, a great American League town. I like Fenway, like the people, the way they talk, the pre-game atmosphere in the crowded streets. Fans arrive from heah and theyah and head to the pahk. They ride the "T," meet friends at Uno's, drift toward the ballpark. Wonderful smells are in the air: grilled onions and peppers and sausage and steak. Which never fails to stimulate the appetite.

I didn't see the big guy at first. Food stands are spaced around the perimeter, little carts and smoking grills, and I wandered from one vendor to the next trying to decide what I wanted. Everything smelled delicious.

When I finally made up my mind, he was right there beside me.

"Can't beat it, can you?" he said.

I didn't know who he was. "Yeah," I said. "Great food here." Just a friendly food-loving Boston fan.

The vendor was looking at him and he said he'd have the same thing. He was enormously fat, with a big spherical belly projecting out past his rumpled blue suit coat, which was too small to fit him properly.

The vendor wrapped my sandwich in waxed paper, then handed it to me, and I paid him. "Kind of hypocritical of you," said the fat man. "Don't you think?" He seemed to be about my age, early fifties at least.

"What?" I said.

"Buying food outside the ballpark," he said.

"What's wrong with that?" I was really hungry, and started peeling back the paper.

"Nothing at all," he said. "But you can't do it in other towns." His tie was loosened, pulled way back from his collar, and the top two buttons of his shirt were undone.

He spoke to the vendor. "Did you know that?" he asked. "You can't get food like this at other parks. The owners won't let you."

Okay. He was from Central City and he happened to recognize me.

"They don't?" answered the vendor. He busied himself at the grill, put fresh meat on, stirred the vegetables, grabbed a roll, started heaping stuff onto it.

I took a bite of my sandwich. Delicious. Fans like him think they can be familiar with you just because they know who you are.

"Red Sox fans are lucky," said the fat man. "Most towns, you have to go inside the ballpark if you want something to eat."

I didn't know if he was talking to me or the vendor. "Concession stands!" he exclaimed. "It's a regular monopoly!"

The vendor handed him his sandwich, wrapped like mine, and he nodded in my direction. "He's picking it up." He pulled the paper away and took a big bite.

Lot of nerve. "No I'm not," I said. "I don't even know this guy."

"Oh yes you do," said the fat man. His mouth was full, and he spit out little bits of food.

"Five dollars," said the vendor.

He took another bite and juice slopped out onto his tie. "I'm Dave, Mr. Courtland. And you owe me one."

I paid the vendor as he took another bite.

"Florida," said Dave. "Remember? You stood me up down in spring training."

"I stood you up? I didn't stand you up." It should have dawned on me then what was going on, but I remained clueless, and did not recognize who he was.

My new spirit.