The Police

Sunday Morning Report: What a hectic night. I was covering the Police concert for Boston’s favorite tabloid, and balanced my seat 12 rows from the stage with darting back and forth to the press box at Fenway Park. Whenever I’m on assignment like this, I can’t help but let that semi-unprofessional side of my take in my surroundings. Last night, it was walking around the press box at Fenway, and looking at the framed newspaper covers from October 2004 in the hallways, the catered food spread (which I may or may have been allowed to indulge in – but hey, act like you belong, and no one will say anything) and the many hallways and doorways of the ballpark. I’ve seen more back areas of Fenway Park in the past two weeks than I have in seven years of living in Boston. It didn’t top meeting Peter Gammons earlier in the month, but this was close. Fenway Park is nothing short of majestic.

Unfortunately, I had to file my late-edition story at 8:45, just a half-hour after the Police went on-stage, meaning I was only able to catch “Message in a Bottle” from the 12th row (maybe 50 feet away from Sting). But then I had to race to the press box, write 350 words of “color” for the news section, and file within 20 minutes.

After that, I was exhausted. (I was walking around in the rain for an early-edition story about pre-gaming in the ballpark, so I was soaked, tired and frustrated with technology as I couldn’t find a wi-fi connection and had to call my story in.)

I watched a few more minutes of the Police from the press box, and when they broke into an unrecognizable song I ghosted. I walked into the elevator, with two guys and a girl behind me. Turns out it was Sting’s son, who performed earlier with Fiction Plane. As I usually do, I just looked down – but then Sting’s son asked me: “Hey, were you at the pill last night?”

Uh.

I nodded. He then said how he danced all night, and how he had a great time. Apparently they played the Dise earlier on and came over to Great Scott. Rumor has it he was at the Barrows after-party, but I wouldn’t know as I passed out zooted on my bed clutching some gross-gusting Parrot Bay malternative.

So that was my Police experience. A lot of running around, a bunch of cool mini-moments, and the chance to see just how hot Sting’s wife, Trudie, really is (She was sitting near me).

Here’s story in the Herald, written in my 10 minutes of allotted time before deadline. I guess the early-edition piece on the rain and how it sucked ass to be out in it didn’t make the glorious jump to the Web. Better off!

Here’s a Friday piece on ticket prices.

I’m just about Policed out.