This Wasn't the Post I Wanted to Write

It's so hard to tear myself away

Even when you know it's over

It's too much to say,...

(The Juliet Letters)

Despite being utterly exhausted, the adrenaline hasn't yet worn off, and thus, I write:

I really wanted to write another happy little piece on the Celtics championship. And how great it was to watch a Finals Playoff with my father in the same room as opposed to on the other side of the planet.

Then, I admit, I really wanted to write a post about watching LA topple and fall in a smoldering heap of ashes and broken glass and the remains of Lakers fans who, in their fetish-like joy over Kobe Bryant's success, literally exploded.

But there are a few things that are keeping me from actually losing my admittedly tenuous grasp on reality at the moment.

First is the memory of the commuters who I travel with every morning; the nameless, typically faceless people who see me at my least presentable every morning and evening. If you walk with them to the T Station outside North Station, you'll notice a healthy amount listing right as they walk. And as they pass the Red Auerbach plaque on the wall, they all reach out and touch the shamrock beside him. "For Luck", the wording beneath it reads.

Second, to go along with that, is the train conductor this afternoon who announced, at each stop "Now approaching Salem--GO CELTICS!" And the business men in their work-weary suits, who grumble at every turn and sigh with martyred exhaustion every time they have to shift their briefcases in the aisle, broke out laughing. And cheering.

Because to live in Boston, especially during Championships, is to be the player on the sidelines, or the tenth man on the field. It means wearing the same clothes for every game and sitting in the same place in the room. As if lives and worlds hung in the space between every heartbeat. And it means believe in the luck of bronze shamrocks, or the magic of a collective wish. It's staring into the bleary, red-rimmed eyes of everyone who stayed up with you and with the team to see it through, regardless of the outcome, and knowing that collective misery is a much easier burden to bear. And it's believing that even if you didn't score more points than the other team, that goodness and right and the angels of hopeless causes were on your side this time. Just like they always have been.

So I wanted to write about how great it was to share a Championship win with my father. And how happy he was and is and how great the Celtics are as a team and what unselfish players they are and how I can go to bed happy. But you know what?

I did get to enjoy the Championship with my father. And I got to wear his BEAT LA shirt. And watching him watch the Celtics win beats the actual win hands down.

I would rather lose with the Celtics than win with any other team. I would rather put my faith in a shamrock-prayer than in any superstar on any day.

And I would take these nights of stress and anguish with my father even if I knew a loss was guaranteed. And I'd have my BEAT LA shirt on the whole time. Just in case the angels decided to be kind.

And that's what it means to be a fan in Boston.

...And that having been said, by God, the Red Sox had better win it this year. My heart can't take this any more.