Security cameras at the ballpark? Say `cheese fries'
By Beth Teitell
Thursday, May 12, 2005

It's always a few people who ruin it for the rest of us, isn't it?

Thanks to the shoe bomber, every time you fly you've got to rush out and get a pedicure before racing to the airport. And forget about your plans to needlepoint during the flight.

And now, because of a few drunks, Fenway's adding extra security cameras to snag the ``overserved.''

``You're worried?'' a friend familiar with my lifestyle asked when I complained.

Yes, as a matter of fact I am, although not about getting captured on film quaffing beer. I should be so lucky. With two young early-risers at home, I'd be crazy to let myself enjoy more than one, two at the very most.

As a fair-weather fan - actually, make that a no-weather fan -here's my concern:

Through no fault of my own I'd end up at the ballpark. Maybe I was kidnapped or I made a wrong turn at Kenmore. It would be a tie game, the bottom of the ninth, bases loaded, a full count. I'd be sitting behind home plate.

That's when the security camera would catch me - applying lip gloss and checking my blush in my little compact. Or maybe I wouldn't be caught in flagrante touch up. I'd be calling a friend from my cellphone for the results of ``American Idol,'' or to find out what she had to eat when she went out to dinner the night before, or simply to complain that I was bored.

Unless of course I wasn't bored. Which would mean that I was eating. Instead of zooming in on drunks, the camera operators would have some fun with the gluttons (namely me).

``Hey, look at that lady in Section 20. She just wolfed down a hot dog and now she's polishing off a pretzel. Yeah, that's right lady, get the Diet Coke. You'll need it.''

The camera would focus on others for a while, and return to my section just in time to snag me returning with a bag of cotton candy and an ice cream cone.

I'll end up as B roll on a documentary about Americans' poor eating habits.

If you ask me, Fenway's spy act is part of a larger, unfortunate tattletale trend. These days, you leave a message on someone's answering machine, and the next thing you know, your amorous whisperings are playing 24/7 on TV and the Internet, and you're forced to defend yourself to Dr. Phil.

Or, in my case, trying to explain why I was reading UsWeekly instead of singing the Sox' unofficial anthem, ``Sweet Caroline.''