Like my childhood park, Forbes Field, in Pittsburgh of many years ago, iconic Fenway Park in Boston today has the look and feel of the ball yard us old-timers grew up with.

Fenway has not changed much since its opening day on April 20, 1912.

Yet, one big change, reflective of the change in the American spirit in general, has occurred.

Donning my Pittsburgh Pirates gear during my first game at Fenway when the Boston Red Sox were playing the Minnesota Twins this July, I stopped by a concession stand to grab an ice-cold beer before returning to my seat.  Now, in my early 60s, I think I look to be only about 50.  Nevertheless, a spunky draft beer tender asked to see my ID.  As per my cranky old-man nature, I protested a bit, removing my ball cap to reveal my balding greying head.  I asked the beer lady if she really thought I was underage.  She ignored the question, which I suspect she had heard many times in the past, and simply stated that she was required to see everyone’s ID.  I replied with my usual argument in such age-for-alcohol situations:  Don’t your bosses trust you to be able to tell the difference between an obviously older adult and a potential youngster?  No, she was working there for many years and had lots of experience, but checking everyone’s IDs was the requirement, so there.

Normally, I would then just walk away beer-less, in protest, but it was a very hot day and, more importantly, I had promised to buy my sons-in-law a round.  (Of course, they could have been underage, although they weren’t.)

Later in the stands, as the game wore on--with not much action as the Twins eventually beat the Red Sox by a score of 2 to 1--I noticed that amidst the peanuts, cotton candy, sodas, and souvenirs for sale there were no beer tenders selling the tasty brew to the thirsty fans.  You had to leave your seat to go back to a beer stand under the grandstand or to the awesome bar on the roof on the right field side.

 I chose to go back to the exact same beer seller under the stands to grab another round of brewski.  But, wouldn’t you know it, the very same tap meistress asked to see my ID again.  I informed her that she had just seen my ID a few innings ago, and she couldn’t mistake my aged self, most likely the only person wearing Pirates gear in the entire park. Yet, she insisted that I show my ID.  When I continued to press her about how ridiculous that request was, she hit me with her best argument:  She would be required to see her own mother’s ID if her mother was to seek a beer from her.

At the venue of America’s favorite summer pastime, this is just one of so many sad examples how independent, intelligent decision-making has been usurped by vapid regulations.  A salesperson, who was obviously mature and seemed to be otherwise of strong will, was compelled to follow an unreasonable and inconvenient directive.  This action in no way represents the American spirit of independence and personal responsibility.  (Although such tenacity would be terrific if directed toward voter verification.  But, that serious issue is for another game on another day.)  Instead, it brings to mind the concept of “sheeple” that so many Americans have become at the hands of overbearing, unnecessary regulations.

But, back to the good old days in Pittsburgh, where the Pirates play in modern, beautiful PNC Park.  At the Buccos ball yard you can still get a cold one from your seat during the game without anyone checking the ID of an obvious old-timer.

Anthony J. Sadar, obviously a Pirates fan, is also author of In Global Warming We Trust: Too Big to Fail (Stairway Press, 2016)