I once met Mike Lowell at a Taylor Swift concert

As long-term readers will attest, my baseball fandom has been a complicated ordeal. I wrote an entire book exploring it in detail, but reiterating the salient points is occasionally useful.

Firstly, I’m English. I was born and raised in Wirral, near Liverpool, and I fell in love with baseball in 2004, after stumbling across a game live on Channel Five. Red Sox Mania was in full effect back then, and I jumped aboard the bandwagon, becoming a passionate fan between 2005 and 2010. 

At that point, Fenway Sports Group, principal owners of the Red Sox, purchased Liverpool FC, a sworn rival of Tranmere Rovers, my beloved hometown football club. Young, naïve, and propelled by the notorious tribalism of British football, I severed ties with the Red Sox and meandered in the baseball wilderness, flirting with different teams but struggling to find a natural fit.

That changed in 2014, when a quirk of fate put me in conversation with the New York Yankees, who sent a fan pack across the ocean and created a tangible connection that has since flourished into love. 

Nowadays, thawed with the passage of time, my sports fandom is fluid, allowing a mature respect for all teams, including the Red Sox, who I still regard with nostalgic appreciation. However, the Yankees belong to an exclusive echelon, above and beyond the fray. They are my number one, and that will never change. 

I rehash this as essential context to an unbelievable story I have been meaning to share for a while: the time I randomly met Mike Lowell, one of my bygone Red Sox heroes, at a Taylor Swift Eras Tour concert, in Liverpool’s Anfield stadium, while wearing a Yankees cap. The serendipity was dizzying. You could not make it up.

There is even more depth to the improbability, though, because my wife, Patrycja, only secured our tickets two days before the concert, held on Friday 14 June 2024. We were also late leaving our house, delayed in traffic getting through the Mersey tunnel, and wasted 20 minutes trying to withdraw cash to pay for parking. A shuttle bus to the stadium added to the chaos, and we got lost several times attempting to locate our entrance.

We arrived to face the option of three different turnstile lines. Patrycja wanted to join the furthest one, but I motioned to the nearest, which seemed to be moving quicker. As we settled into the queue, however, I became preoccupied by the large man in front of us. While greying, he possessed the sloping shoulders and lithe, unmistakeable presence of a former athlete. My encyclopaedic baseball brain kicked in, scanned its mental database, and spat out a name. 

“Is that Mike Lowell?,” I thought. 

Here, in Liverpool, of all places? 

Surely not.

Panicked and flustered, trying not to gawp or rubberneck, I tried to draw Patrycja’s attention.

“Do they have an American accent?,” I whispered, exasperated, nodding towards the strangers in front, obviously a father and son. 

“Yes,” she confirmed, confused, as another sideways glance confirmed my suspicions.

I did not want to be rude, respecting the sanctity of family time, but such chances rarely present themselves – especially for baseball fans marooned in Britain. As with my chance encounter with A-Rod in the London Stadium broadcast booth, I just had to take this opportunity to share a moment with an icon of my youth.

Eyeing the dwindling queue, I gulped, plucked up the courage, and tapped the hulking guy on his back.

“Excuse me – I’m so sorry to interrupt, but is your name Mike?,” I asked.

“Yeah,” he replied, turning around, a little startled.

“Mike Lowell?,” I asked, half-knowingly, with a smile. 

“Yeah.”

From there, I surrendered to word vomit, regaling Mike with memories of the 2007 World Series, of which he was named MVP; explaining my random baseball fandom; and mentioning that a copy of Deep Drive, his 2008 autobiography, sits on my bookshelf.

Lowell must have been confused, being recognised by a baseball fan halfway around the world, more than a decade after his retirement, but he was gracious and accommodating.

“You’ve made my day,” he said, beaming.

I could not believe my luck.

Quickly, we snapped a photo, during which I apologised wryly for my Yankees cap. I was stood next to a member of the Red Sox Hall of Fame, after all. But Lowell reminded me he was drafted by the Yankees, who gave him a start in professional baseball. He was grateful for their pathway.

Not wanting to intrude any further, I thanked Mike for his time and moseyed on into the concert. Surrounded by 60,000 fans agog at the most famous woman on earth, I was simply thrilled to have met a retired, 50-year-old ballplayer in the most unlikely locale.

Patrycja was baffled by my ability to identify such a bygone star, from behind, in Liverpool. I had no cogent answer, but regaled her with tales of Lowell – the two World Series rings (one for the Marlins, against the Yankees, in 2003); the heroic battle against cancer; the All-Star appearances; and the gentle giant aura he embodied.

Just weeks before, Patrycja and I carried baseballs around New York – even on rare non-baseball excursions – during our honeymoon, just in case we bumped into a potential addition to my burgeoning autograph collection. The same happened in London, during the Mets-Phillies series, where I nabbed signed balls from David Wright, Adam Wainwright, Ryan Howard and Luis Severino. We lamented not taking a baseball to Anfield, but laughed at the absurdity of such a notion, which encapsulates the encounter’s sheer improbability.

In retrospect, the entire episode underscored my personal growth and offered closure on the contentious fandom dynamics that plagued my maturation. I was 13 when Lowell and the Red Sox won that World Series – a bug-eyed kid with no idea how the world worked. Now, I’m 30, and sports occupy an altogether less vitriolic place in my life. Once, I would never have stepped foot in Anfield, let alone enjoy my time there. But with a ring on my finger, a wife by my side, and fresh perspective born of experience, I savoured a fantastic moment.

So thank you, Mike – for the moment, and the memories.

I will always cherish our Eras Tour rendezvous.