Last night, we went to Mac's Place, on Water Street, to watch the game with some friends. A young guy gave me shit (in fun) from the get-go, telling me that the Sox have had their championships and that it was time for another team. By the time we left, I was giddy with victory, fueled in no small portions of Jack rocks and Drop Top Amber. The Sox won. They went from a 3-1 deficit to evening up the series. "I'll see you Wednesday night," I told Mike, the kid.
"Fuckin' A." He replied.
Actually, I won't see him Wednesday night. The baseball season ended for me tonight, and with it, summer. It's turning cold here. The leaves are aflame with color and the air is crisp. It'll be a long time until spring training.
Of course, I am sad that the Red Sox didn't beat the Rays. I got a little upset when I saw someone holding a sign reading "The Improbable Dream" at the end of the game. 1967 was the summer of "The Impossible Dream," remember? And it was. And we didn't get there.
It turned out last season that Tom Brady and the Pats were mortal after all. They had enough championships, I guess.
Will the power trio of Pierce, Allen and Garnett pull off another championship season? It remains to be seen, eh?
Being from Boston is a state of mind as much as a starting point. There are very tangible things that hold me to that place, just as it does for all the others who have travelled west. Sure, the teams. The subway. Fried clams and Nantasket in the summer. Or the cape. Their autumn is famous for the foliage. We share that. And we share that abstract locale known as Red Sox Nation.
It is still in Boston tonight. No celebrations. Wait 'til next year.