A whopping $217 million…for a freaking pitcher?!? Now I know I’ve seen it all.
After a half-century of baseball, blizzards, college students and traffic, my bucket list is nearly complete. I’ve even seen Pablo Sandoval leg out a triple.
Happy 50th birthday to me: I am Boston’s famed Citgo sign.
On this week in 1965, my then-neon red and blue hues first lit the sky above Kenmore Square. I have been a fixture for Red Sox fans, Bostonians and visitors from everywhere ever since.
My view from atop 660 Beacon St. is spectacular, even if my vantage point has not budged since Zoilo Versalles was American League MVP.
I was once a “Cities Services” sign. But the company’s name was changed to Citgo.
See It Go. Get it?
That was once considered wicked clever.
You have seen me on TV whenever the Boston Red Sox play at home and someone hits a fly ball or home run to left center. In person, I’m much prettier.
A sparkling red triangle just behind the green Triangle.
I am a beacon on Beacon Street. Find me when you’re headed to Fenway Park, and you’re never lost. I cannot, however, do anything about the traffic, that jerk who just cut you off on Commonwealth Avenue or those $50 parking spots.
The best things in life remain free, including my view of Fenway Park from behind and above the left-field wall. Watching the Red Sox, on the other hand, can be costly both emotionally and financially.
In 1966, box seats at Fenway Park were $3. Those same seats will be $145 in 2016.
They come complete with gluten-free beers.
For $9.
Hey, someone has to pick up the tab for David Price, who signed a seven-year, $217 million deal with the Red Sox earlier this month.
When I first peeked inside Fenway Park, the average MLB salary was $17,664. At 100 pitches per start over 35 starts per season, Price will be averaging $8,857.14 per pitch.
This past season, the MLB average salary was over $4 million.
That’s a 226-fold increase. The Red Sox, meanwhile, have only folded maybe 25 or so times since.
Things were bleak at first. During my rookie season of 1966, the Red Sox lost 90 games. That was a feat they would not match until 2012.
I’ve since illuminated both Yaz and Taz—also known as Carl Yastrzemski and Junichi Tazawa.
My arc of history begins when Lyndon B. Johnson was in the White House. It continues with Jackie Bradley Junior in right. That’s LBJ to JBJ for those scoring at home.
President Nixon came and went. As did Russ, Otis and Trot. The other John Kennedy played the infield during my childhood. Sam Kennedy reigns as team president as I enter my sixth decade.
I’ve studied the windups and deliveries of Lonborg, Looie, Rocket, Pedro, Schilling, Beckett, Lester, Lackey and Buchholz.
My all-time alphabetical scorecard begins with David Aardsma and ends with Bob Zupcic.
Epic choke jobs and crushing defeats scarred my childhood.
St. Louis and Cincinnati celebrated world championships on my watch. I never saw Tony Perez’s home run off Bill Lee come back to earth in 1975, either. By the age of 10, I had witnessed the Red Sox lose Game 7 of the World Series twice.
Too bad Bobby Orr and John Havlicek didn’t play baseball.
For an oil company’s neon sign, this kid had it rough.
I’ll always believe Carlton Fisk was waving at me in Game 6. Thankfully, all those fans were not giving me the finger whenever Reggie Jackson, Thurman Munson or A-Rod came to the plate.
But none of those damn Yankees broke my circuits like that puny little Bucky F. Dent.
I was the last thing millions of fans watching on TV saw before his home run landed softly in the left-field screen back on Oct. 2, 1978. I was 12 at the time.
How could that have happened? It was supposed to be our year!
The Red Sox won 99 regular-season games that season and missed the playoffs? The 2015 world champion Kansas City Royals only won 95! Life is never fair. The cynicism grew.
Playoff sweeps followed live and in person at the hands of Carney Lansford and Dennis Eckersley’s Oakland A’s in 1988 and 1990. Both were jettisoned by Boston and eventually teamed up in Oakland.
Gory eventually evolved into glory.
My midsummer’s night field of dreams came to life before the 1999 All-Star Game when Ted Williams made one final splendid appearance.
He was almost upstaged by Pedro Martinez, who struck out five of the six batters he faced. Down went Barry Larkin, Larry Walker and Sammy Sosa in the first inning. And Mark McGwire and Jeff Bagwell in the second.
Impossible and improbable dreams also came true on my watch. Duck Boats rolled three times for the Red Sox. Gold bottles popped. Cigars ignited.
Thanks to the 2004 team winning Boston’s first baseball title in 86 years, fans could finally stop the nonsense about some stupid “curse” of a fat guy named Babe.
And to do it by shattering the hopes and haunting the nightmares of every last Yankees fan in the country in the process? Hahahaha, freaking priceless!
I saw the game on TV through the windows of Kenmore Square, but witnessed the postgame celebration firsthand in the streets below.
Talk about retribution; no one would believe it even if it were a movie—oh yeah, it became one. I was in it, too. And caught the world premiere live at Fenway Park.
That euphoria was in large part due to David Ortiz, David Ortiz and David Ortiz.
In 2013, the Red Sox won a World Series at home for the first time since 1918. It was their third title in 10 seasons. I beamed with pride.
Overall, four pennants were clinched (1967, 1986, 2007, 2013) and one was lost (1999) within my field of vision.
Oh, and remember all that chicken and beer in 2011? The smell from that Popeyes in Kenmore Square is right under my nose.
Gross.
Fall classics. Classic falls.
Fifty years of bleeping baseball in this bleeping city can drive you bleeping crazy.
The Boston Patriots, Boston College’s football team and the Boston Bruins have looked up to me at various times, as did Paul McCartney, Bruce Springsteen, Jay Z and J.T., the Police, and plenty of actual police.
Ray Charles and Stevie Wonder could not see me, but I got to hear them, which is all that mattered.
The runners in 50 Boston Marathons have used me as a bellwether to mark the final mile (or so) of the race.
An entire army of runners stopped at my feet when the Boston Marathon bombers struck in 2013. An entire city then stood still and vigilant for days. Six months later, millions filled the streets in celebration.
As for me, I am double-sided and stand 60 feet tall and 60 feet wide. My caretakers tell me I’m the largest such sign in New England and somehow even energy efficient.
There have been lots of stories written about me. Before I was three, I was even the subject of the short film called Go, Go, Citgo in 1968.
Stop laughing, did I mention it was 1968?
As if I’d visited far too many Irish pubs after a big Red Sox win, I blacked out from May 1979 until August 1983.
Luckily for me, my 10 miles of neon had little to brighten when it came to the Red Sox at that time, anyway. I even missed a baseball strike in 1981.
Like anyone else who is 50 this year, I’ve had my share of health issues, including a minor fire in 2008 and renovations in 1983, 2004 and 2010.
But my future is bright. There are no plans to permanently turn me off or take me down. And I continue to inspire future generations of baseball fans.
One of my many admirers is a five-year-old boy named Dash. He was born in New York, but now lives in Boston. His mom, Boston.Com writer Hilary Sargent, says she helped Dash create a Citgo sign project the day after the Boston Marathon bombing in 2013, before he ever saw the sign in person.
“He had no idea this was a real sign until we moved back,” Sargent said. “He called all red triangles ‘Citgo signs.’ For his fifth birthday, I told him he could have any cake he wanted. He asked for a Citgo sign cake with his name on it. Despite spending his earliest years in enemy territory, he’s a proud Red Sox fan.”
Ahh, start ’em young.
At 50, I remain an ionic, err iconic, landmark—at least until the next energy crisis or alien attack.
I cannot blow out my own candles on this landmark birthday, but I’ll take any #GiftOfSox being offered.
My baseball wish remains relatively modest: At least one more championship before I turn 51.
Bill Speros is a Bay State native and award-winning journalist. Like the Citgo sign, he, too, turned 50 this year. Follow him on Twitter @RealOBF.
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