Hadlock Field, Home of the Sea Dogs.

What's the fastest way between two points?

Wait, back up.

So I'm sitting in Brian Boru's with Dr. Malkav, my brother in arms, taking advantage of their Sunday deal on pints. Guinness, Harp, Smithwicks and Bass ale are $2.50 all day. 50 cents more than a PBR. Go do this. We had just finished our closing shift at Portland Pie Co. and decided to go out for a quick beer after work with one of the amiable front end girls. She brings her eccentric friend from New York who was going be driving back home that night, at 11:00 pm. Wild. After they split, Malkav and I got to a-talkin' as we are wont to do. And before we knew it we had ran the gamut of the reduced prices, and it was last call.

On my walk home, the all-too-familiar pangs of guilt and remorse. I should not have had so much to drink, for there was no godly way possible I would be able to remain conscious once home, and henceforth, entirely incapable of writing my set design research paper. So I reach a crossroads by King Middle School, corner of Park and Deering. Do I go home, attempt to write this business but end up passing out with my laptop straddling me in bed. That never ends well. Or do I truck it to Denny's, snag a booth near an outlet, plug in, ask the waitress for a cup of joe and keep'em comin' and crank this bad boy out. Yes. I can do this. I don't have a lot of money to burn, but academia takes priority. So I took off.

Not on hundred feet later I stop myself. Travis, you fool. The paper is due Tuesday! And you have one free "late project" pass! Brilliant! So I stop myself in my tracks, and I'm right in front of good ol' Hadlock Field. Home of the 'Dogs. The hometeam. My boys. I love this place. Fond memories of grilling up burgers on Dean St. with NFC, Justice Train, and the boys, enjoying some fine Pabst Blue Ribbons, and walking over in the bright summer sun to catch the Sea Dogs play some lame ass farm team from Trenton, New Jersey or something.

Over the stadium wall, I can see Route 295, headlights dashing through the foggy weather.

Over Route 295, I could see over the crest of some trees the incandescently lit top of the Clifford Elementary School.

Which happens to be right down the street from my house.

And what is truly quicker than a straight line? Over a baseball stadium, railroad tracks, highway and a tiny hill of dead trees. It's still a straight line, right? OK. I can't rationalize my decision. Alcohol and adventure are my only stand-by's. But man, to be fully honest, that's all I really ever need.

So I go into the upper parking lot. Had I entered the lower parking lot I would have taken note of the multiple NO TRESPASSING signs, and recalled how often I would see police cruisers lurking in the lot like sharks through the dark. But no, I only see this stairway up to this landing with two large doors. The landing extends over the fence surrounding the park, and upon a closer look, ends right above the roof of one of the concession booths. With recklessly little thought, I got straight up the balcony, cross the railing, and lower myself down onto the roof. This is where I hesitate.

At work, we have these extreme sports videos playing on some of the televisions. There are some freeclimbing scenes, and I did my best to channel everything I had seen idly drinking at the counter after my shift flipping through the classifieds. It was almost as easy as they made it look. The lime green metal sheeting of the roof was a bit frosty and slick, but I Spidermanned my way down to the edge, and below me sat two picnic tables on top of one another. Not six feet below me. Score.

And with that, I dropped into Hadlock Field. Quite illegally. I instantly darted for the shadows, creeping quietly, looking for a security guard, police officer, psychopathic baseball player, territorial homelessmen or... you know, some punk kid sneaking around. Nay. The coast was quite clear.

Some twists and turns, down some stairs, and I found myself in a dirty litter-filled behind the scenes sort of path in the park. And then a break in the wall...I step through...

and I'm on the field. In the outfield. Walking along the billboards. Awesome.
I'm scanning every window, looking for a figure silhouetted in the dim emergency lights, or the worst thing ever: the rogue flashlight beam lancing out, stabbing into the shadows. But nope. Barren. Empty. I resisted the temptation to run the bases. I'm still under the influence, but the excitement and danger of the endeavor had me focusing sharply on every noise and sight. Heart pounding, I felt the rush of a misbehaving child and getting away with it flood over me. I run my hands along the advertisements up to this crane-lift heavy machinery deal parked by an open door in the wall.

On the other side is a shitty looking trailer, some cement bricks, sand, garbage and the fence leading me forward onto the next step of my adventure. But I'd walked down those tracks before and seen this area, and the fence was topped off with some threatening barbed wire. But what's this?! A giant fucking ladder! I try to move it in several which ways, my carpentry days in the Scene Shop convincing me I could utilize this for max effect. Unfortunately, it is stuck, but what's this? It's leading up to some kind of gangplank?

Up I go. And ta da! I'm right there on the wall, near the Little Green Monster. I reach over and touch some more of the signs, but then I notice. Boom. Camera. The tiny black ball kind, where you have no fucking clue where they're pointed. I have a mini-freak out but realize it's pretty unfeasible for it to be pointed straight at me. But it is overlooking the field. And I was down there. Riiiiight...

No more screwing around, time to peace right on out of this bitch. The envelope had been pushed, and I wanted out before it started pushing back, so down the ladder I go, right up to the fence...with the barbed wire... And to my astounding luck, a snowbank rises halfway up the fence down in one corner, surrounded by this thicket of branches. If anyone, any of my friends, good people with common sense, had been there, they would have called me an idiot and told me to stop. But they weren't there. So I grapple with this tangle of branches and get my foot on top of the fence, under the first line of barbed wire. With that leverage, and using the round safe top of the tall pole joining the two fences, I heft my other leg up to the adjacent fence. It's a balancing act, and I'm in no condition to balance.

The thin stringy branches are above the barbed wire as well, and meshed together, hold my foot. I somehow maneuver my way into standing on top of the barbed wire, almost perched on the tall center pole...and the drop down to the other side is a bit further than the one down to the tables. But. Too late to go back. I hop.

Land on my feet, fall back on my ass, in the snow. Totally cool. Totally fine. This is why God gave us asses. God Bless my Ass.

So here I am on the tracks, things are looking up. Up this tiny bank to Route 295. So up I go, through some branches, into the ditch on the side of the highway. And I'm watching cars go by, waiting for the gap. It's kind of rough. There's no cars coming in one direction, but fairly consistent in the other. I'm not very virtuous, but I am a patient man. A gap comes. No headlights screaming towards me, just the light cast by the next volley of cars. No time to think, I scamper like a squirrel that accidentally ate a stray bag of cocaine in Deering Oaks.

Safe! No harm, no foul. I have a bit trickier of a time getting over the next fence, it's just a regular chain link but I didn't want to hurt my hands. I end up trying to use branches again, but just get some brambles in my pants. It takes twice as long, but I jump down onto Washburn Ave. Right around the corner from Home Sweet Home.

And I go, dots connected, straight there. The adrenaline keeps me up for a while, but I write more on my play instead of my essay, but whatever. That shit's due later. And I'm a motherfuckin' Sea Dog.