Roots, Not Baseball

Last night there were hundreds upon hundreds upon hundreds of blissed out delirious Red Sox fans skipping around like idiots and screaming at the tops of their lungs through about four square blocks near the Riviera.

I joined up with the mob after skipping from the bar I'd watched the game at (there were at least 10 bars overloaded with Red Sox fans in these four square blocks) and after being stopped by at least ten people who gave me hugs and a few people who said "If you love Boston so fucking much, why don't you just fucking go back?"

The mob oscillated between ecstasy and shock. It wasn't as crazy as it was last week because people couldn't process it. We know the response to "We beat the Yankees!" but were we prepared for "We won the World Series!"?

In the middle of the micro-riot, two dudes climbed a pole and led various chants. Then they signalled for everyone to be quiet, and everyone, bizarrely enough, obliged.

This is what the dude yelled:

"You know what this is about? This isn't about us - this is for our grandfathers, who went 80 years without knowing what this feels like! This is for them!"

The micro-riot applause sounded different in response to this. It wasn't ecstasy or shock or delirium or chaos or bliss. It was the sound of respect, and pride, the sound of really deep roots.

And that, folks, is why I have been following baseball for the past two weeks. It's not baseball. It's pride in where I'm from, where my parents are from, where their parents and their parents' parents are from. Locals are a bizarre and dedicated breed, and that's what I am! Even though I don't live there anymore, I am still attached to my roots.

And so are most of you! I was thinking about how a lot of my friends from back home are locals with deep family roots in MA. For example, consider how M used to get excited every single time she'd drive by the house her father grew up in, which was around the corner from my house on Hall Street.

Or how my favorite ex-boyfriend's father is extremely sick, and how he has no short term memory anymore so he can't really communicate, but how my ex can still watch and discuss the Red Sox with him because my ex continuously returns to MA to watch sports.

In rooting for the Sox it's like I'm rooting for all of you because I know how much this means to you. I know that you have travelled to the west coast to see Red Sox games. I know that you look forward to Fenway each season. I know you've been hoping for this for your entire lives, just like your grandfathers. I am rooting for you and what you represent.

I can't get over the people on the street last night who were so angry that we were excited. It's just sad because New York City is a place where everyone feels like they belong. Historically that's what it is - people from all over the world came through New York City in search of hope and hopefully tolerance. New York City and its burroughs are places you can live regardless of your skin color, socioeconomic background, regardless of how bizarrely you dress or how many dogs you want to carry in your pocketbook with you to work.

Pride in the face of adversity. I hated New Yorkers last night and actually momentarily contemplated jumping on a Fung Wah bus to be where I belonged (until it occurred to me that, unlike NYC, the bars in Boston would not be open until 5am). I sang the praises of Boston and even of Rhode Island, where the kids I watched the game with hailed from (although I should mention that everyone in the bar agreed that CT, indeed, sucks).

This is why I watched baseball. I am proud of where I came from and who I am even though I live somewhere else now.

I am coming home for the parade this weekend because it actually hurts to see photos of people going nuts in Kenmore Square. I miss Boston today, but I will be there tomorrow! Woo hoo!