I’m a Red Sox fan. I used to be a big fan when I was little (I even have Roger Clemens’ rookie card), lost interest, and am now a big fan again. I love Fenway Park. The uncomfortable seats, crowded T, $7 beers and the best hog dogs around. I saw a Yankee fan harassed by Sox fans at a Devil Dogs game. It was great. (Really. Why would you wear a Yankees hat in Boston to a Boston/Tampa game? The kid was clearly asking for it).
I was at the Yankees game with the infamous Varitek/ARod fight. My thighs were bruised from jumping up so fast I hit them on the seat in front of me. I almost cried when the Yankee fan behind me called Varitek a pussy. And my throat hurt for days after screaming for Bill Mueller’s walk off home run off of Marian-A Rivera, and chanting “Yankees Suck” to the tune of Dirty Water.
I cried when they won the World Series. And I stood in the rain for hours by Mass General to see the “Rolling Rally.” You know those teeny boppers you see on tv crying and fainting because N’Sync signed their CD? That was me, except at 26, knees shaking and trying not to cry as the Boston cop assigned to keeping our section in line led us in a rousing round of Sweet Caroline. I swear Bronson Arroyo looked right at me (my friend said it was because I screamed “Bronson!” at the top of my lungs).
After the rally, we walked to the Common and took pictures in front of the World Champions banner outside of the State House. It was one of the best days of my life. And, on a bittersweet note, I gave a picture of J & I in front of the banner to my Papa for Christmas. He passed away after a hard battle with cancer less than 6 months after the Sox won the Series, and I’m so glad he lived to see it. We buried him with a Sox cap.