It Would Be So Nice If You Weren't Here

We've been told a few things over the years: "You were speeding" (Texas; I was); "There may be nudity" (Oregon; there was); "Hey! No photographs!" (Massachusetts; OK, fine). But this was the first time, I think, that we've been pressured to leave a public place. That place was Fuller Field, in Clinton, Massachusetts, on the back end of our recent Patriots Day Weekend trip.

I felt a little bad for the young and doughy camp counselor who asked us to leave. He seemed genuinely pained, confused, and maybe even a little scared. He was wrangling a cluster of, I don't know, maybe twenty little kids, and I get that the sight of a couple retirement-age dudes emerging from a dirty old sports car to wander around nearby wouldn't necessarily fill him with joy.

But we were there to see what has been billed as the oldest ballpark in continuous use. And not only is it in a public park, but the town of Clinton itself trumpets its place in history on the park website. There's a nice big sign on the road next to the field, too, pointing out the historic attraction—a veritable beacon to baseball tourists like ourselves!

I'm actually not clear on whether this was a private camp that was renting public space or whether it was a town program. Either way, the problem is, public space is public space. To quote from the Town of Clinton's Parks and Open Spaces Rental Agreement (emphasis added): "All parks are open to the public so the facility will not be closed during your event, however with the rental agreement from the department you will have the ability to exclusive use of the facility/space designated for your rental and may kindly ask the public to vacate the space during your rental time."

And ask our interlocutor did—well, not so much ask as implore: "Please leave," he said. After I asked, "Isn't this a public place?" he replied, "No. We have this reserved." Beyond being untrue—and a very odd thing for a public employee to say, if he was one—this was also unnecessary. The little kids were all clustered together in a small area near some bleachers. (Notably, they were perched mere feet from that sign proclaiming the field's place in history.) They weren't even using 95% of the field, so there was plenty of room for us to snap a couple photos in peace. Alas, it was not to be in today's America, where we assume the worst of strangers and, out of fear, assert rights we don't have. Frankly, we're lucky the dude wasn't armed. 

We did visit some other places where we were at least not not-welcome: among them, the land closest to Busta Rhymes Island, the Wachusett Dam (shown at the top), and the Ruins of Bongoland — sorry, the Ruins of Holy Land USA, overlooking Waterbury, Connecticut.

We eventually made it to Somerset, New Jersey, for a double-A game. It was cold as hell, so we gave up after seven innings, with the hometown Patriots down 7–4. In the event, they scored 13 runs after that and won, 17–9. Obviously, they had just been waiting for us to leave.