The only way to have a friend is to be one. -Ralph Waldo Emerson

This story is among the most commented on among all the Weblogs. If you haven't read it yet, my guess is that you will appreciate it. If you have read it before, you know you want to read it again.

Many years ago, I had a friend who was an usher at Fenway Park and each year when the Major League Baseball season starts, I have distributed the story in his memory. It is one of the most popular weblogs based on the feedback received.

With the Red Sox opening up against the Mariners on Thursday, my thoughts naturally drift back to a couple of amazing summers that I spent with the best usher in Boston.

The photo of the mannequin with the classic usher uniform from Fenway Park, appeared on the website Uniwatch.com in an article by Paul Lukas on the National Ballpark Museum. I didn't ask for permission to use it, but I'm hoping they appreciate the credit, I know I would.

One of the hardest things to do is to pretend that you love what you are doing. We’ve all tried it from time to time, pretending that is. It could be a particular part of our role, or it could be our entire role.

Convincing others that you love what you are doing, when you don't, is virtually impossible. Conversely, when you are passionate and enthusiastic about what you are doing, you can’t hide it either, no matter what you do.

I once had a friend who caught my attention with his enthusiasm, couldn’t hide his passion for what he did, and helped teach me what enthusiasm is really all about.

At the end of a Red Sox-Yankees game at Fenway Park many years ago, I met the best usher in Boston, Bill Maskell.

Bill was an experienced usher who worked a full shift at the Garden and at Fenway. In his section at Fenway, the grandstand split by the aisle between sections 17 and 18, just up from the Red Sox on deck circle, everyone who attended even one game in that area knew Bill loved his job. He couldn’t hide it and the fans couldn’t miss it.

He winked at the girls, could be comically gruff with big strong men, and gentle as a butterfly with little kids. He had something to say or a special smile for everyone he met. Tall and thin, he was unabashedly enthusiastic and talked non-stop to everyone who came his way.

In fact, he greeted almost every fan by name at every game. How did he do that? He knew the names of a lot of the season ticket holders, and (I think) he made up names for the rest—but he greeted everyone, and it was obvious to all that he had a spirit and passion for being at the ballpark and helping people.

Ushers don’t make a ton of money, most work the job part-time, but because Bill was full-time, his jacket may have been a little bit frayed at the sleeve, and the small red towel he used to wipe off seats for an occasional tip might have been washed and faded to pink, but he loved his job and everyone knew it.

There were a couple of years when I worked close enough to Fenway to hear the National Anthem from the restaurant's dining room. I had a standing invitation from Bill to sit in row 32, seat 2 on the aisle between sections 17 and 18 in one of a pair of seats in his section that a season ticket holder never used, something only an usher would know. (I recently found the photo above that I took from those seats).

He would join me from the 4th inning to the 9th inning, when he was (technically?) off-duty, and he'd have some popcorn and a Coke. We talked about the Red Sox, life, and more. Mostly Bill would talk, and I would listen, he had a lot to say, and I had a lot to learn. We sat in those two seats on the aisle, together for six innings, for more than 100 games over two seasons.

By the time we met, he had been ushering for almost five decades with the same spirit and enthusiasm, so I wasn’t exaggerating when I called him the best usher in the park. He was not only the most knowledgeable and the friendliest, it was apparent he was also the usher who loved his job more than anyone else.

Bill was almost 50 years older than me when we met, and I’m not sure how much of whatever wisdom I possess was a gift from him, but I know that I try to do my job (most days) with the same enthusiasm that I saw in that "best usher at Fenway Park" all those years ago.

During my family's last holiday season in Massachusetts before we relocated to California, we decided to invite Bill to join us at our house on Christmas Eve. We had realized he didn’t have anywhere to go during holidays and hadn’t had anywhere to go for a long while. He had been a widower for years and had a daughter who lived somewhere out west, but rarely visited. Naturally we wanted to get him a present or two, to thank him for his friendship and those wonderful nights of wisdom in row 32.

But what do you get an 80-year-old usher in addition to maybe some aftershave you could smell all the way to the bleachers? After some discussion, we got him a little red towel he could use to dust the seats in his section, something he would use every day.

After a great dinner, expertly prepared by my wife, he slowly opened the wrapped package that contained the little red towel and held it up for everyone to see. It may have been the first Christmas gift he’d unwrapped in years. He instantly knew what it was and why, and you’d have thought we’d given him gold, frankincense and myrrh.

Of all the presents I have given to friends and family over the years, that little red towel, at that moment, may have been the most appreciated. His eyes teared up as he looked at the towel, and mine just teared up writing this sentence. I think we also gave him that after shave as well.

We moved away that Spring but came back to visit and I saw Bill almost every year, sometimes making it to Fenway, sometimes to the Garden.



The last time I saw him was when he was 91 years old. I went to a Red Sox game and couldn’t find him in front of section 18, and thought the worst, but his replacement directed me to the concourse under the right field stands.

The Red Sox had found him a sitting job, because of his poor health, guarding the exit turn-style over in a corner, under section 2 or 3 past the ambulance gate. We were glad to see each other, and he asked about my family. We chatted about that year’s team and the seasons we sat together on the aisle between sections 17 and 18. I could tell he wasn't doing well. He could tell I could tell.

We made the kind of eye contact people make who are never going to see each other again and know it. I thanked him for being a friend and for all the wisdom I gained from him over the years, and he thanked me for... the little red towel that he held up, just like he did on that Christmas Eve 12 years before.

He had such a tight grip on it, you couldn’t have pulled it from his hands with a pick-up truck.



The next year when I hit Fenway for my annual trip back East, I learned that Bill was making people smile at that big ballpark in the sky. Although I don’t know for sure, my guess is that the little red towel went with him.

Bill Maskell 1900-1992