Let’s cut immediately to the
chase: this is about a late blooming
love affair I’ve recently had with the city of Boston. It’s a bit perplexing. You can’t grow up in New England, even in the
wild and wooly north, and not feel some connection and affinity with the
Hub. Proximity lends itself to a feeling
of shared experience; pride in the place where American independence began and
stubbornly refused to yield; pride in cultural and intellectual icons like
Harvard, MIT, Mass General, the MFA and many more. Even pride in sports franchises who represent
the region all over North America and beyond.
Here is where the relationship gets sticky for me.
For as long as I can remember I have
been a fan of the New York Yankees. As even
the most casual of baseball fans know the Yankees and Boston don’t mix. I recently saw a hilarious YouTube music
video of The Devil Came Up To Boston,
a remake of the classic Charlie Daniels song where a hot fiddle player named
Johnny is challenged for his soul by the Devil, a bit of a hot fiddler
himself. In the recent version Johnny is
from Boston and sports a Red Sox cap.
The Devil wears a Yankees hat and comes from a city many Bostonians
associate with Hell.
I’ve been living in the Boston area
since early October of last year. I was
here for the Snowpocalypse of ’13 when three feet of snow fell on the first
Saturday in February and the Mayor authorized police to arrest anyone on the
roads. I was here for the immediate
aftermath of a disastrous season for the Red Sox, the disappointing loss for
the Patriots in the AFC Championship and the end of an eventful and successful
era in Celtics basketball history. I was
here as Boston’s own Whitey Bulger, America’s public enemy number one, was
brought to justice. I was also here for
the marathon bombing on Patriot’s Day, and was very nearly there at ground zero. Only a
chance return to Vermont that Monday in April kept me from being at the finish
line with a co-worker. He was unhurt,
but friends who attended with him suffered critical injuries. I left Boston early on the following Friday
for a day at Jay Peak narrowly avoiding another mandatory lock down as police
searched for the bombers while I listened to a surreal scenario unfolding in
real time on the radio during my four hour trip north.
I became proud of the feelings of
courage and unity the people of this area exhibited. Boston, like all great cities, is an amalgam
of race, nationality and religion. It
seems nothing makes us more unified as Americans in thought and deed as a
disaster. The people here refused to be
cowed, refused to stay home, change their lifestyles or move to the
country. And just as the Yankees
improbable run to the World Series in 2001 in the aftermath of 9/11 helped bring
healing to New York, I was a witness to the healing power of sports this spring
in Boston. There’s a hockey team here, the
Bruins, you may have heard of them. In
the aftermath of the marathon bombings the Bruins made a magical run to the NHL
championship series. On a beautiful June
night I drove into the city with my visiting daughter to meet a friend and hang
out downtown in a neighborhood bar. The
place was packed with people spilling into the street, mingling with overflow
from the bar next door. Both places
featured cheap beer, expensive cover charges and TVs tuned to game two of the
Stanley Cup Finals. My buddy is tight
with the owner, so after a brief moment of unpleasantness with a bouncer the
size of a Mazda my daughter and I found a bit of standing room with a
commanding view of the game. The place
pulsated with energy and TVs at max volume while the owner kept us in beer and
conversation neither side could hear.
The casual camaraderie was spiked periodically by lightning fast action
on the screen. No major professional
sport moves as quickly as hockey and the tempo of playoff hockey can turn a TV
into a defibrillator. The championship
series between the Bruins and the Chicago Blackhawks was so evenly matched that
playing into overtime in each game was almost a given. So it was with this game, as well. Tied at the end of three periods, the drama
continued to build into sudden death overtime, with both teams unable to score
despite wild end-to-end rushes up ice at the opposing goals.
My daughter has a photographer’s eye
and sense of timing for capturing the pathos of a moment. She had just started to frame a shot of dozens
of Bruins bedecked mostly Twenty and Thirty Somethings riveted to a giant
screen when a Daniel Paille slapshot eluded the Chicago goaltender. The overtime thriller ended as night turned
to morning, intensity exploded into pandemonium and the Drop Kick Murphy’s “I’m
Shipping Up to Boston” roared at ear distorting levels. My friend lit up a
super sized spliff of Cheech & Chong dimensions, like some 21st
Century new age Red Auerbach (wrong sport, right city) and a wild uncontainable
party surged into the streets of downtown.
There are things about Boston I don’t
much care for. I often ride my bike to
work and do nightly runs around my neighborhood, practices that in Vermont
allow for a social “how’s it going?” when meeting like minded folk. When I first arrived here I used to greet
people in this manner, only to realize that Bostonians think you’re potentially
dangerous or, at best, a bit dim witted.
When driving, only brief windows of opportunity exist where you can
actually get somewhere. I recently spent
an hour and a half traversing the 1.5 miles of the Ted Williams Tunnel. Thoughtless littering is as ubiquitous as car
horns and emergency sirens, and the next time someone with a Massachusetts
plate uses a turn signal on Route 128 will be the first time. Despite the dirt, the danger and more cars
than you would see in Vermont over the course of ten lifetimes it’s where I
experienced a bit of June magic I’ll remember for the rest of my life. What’s not to love? Well, let me tell you…
Boston may be the true birthplace of
American democracy, the Pops, J Geils, and the Gardener Museum, but it’s also
the hometown of the Impossible Dream, the story of the 1967 Red Sox. Which leads me back to my original state of adoring
confusion that started this tale, something Sox fans won’t relate to, but will
understand: I do love that dirty water,
but you’ll never, ever catch me singing Sweet Caroline.
