Eighty-Six Years

The last time it happened, my grandfather was four years old. That’s the phrase that I keep repeating in my head. It’s the only thing that gives me perspective. These bunch of chuckleheads have just given New England what they’ve been after for eighty-six years. As I said before, this means a lot more to a lot of other people but it means a lot to me, too. I can’t even imagine what the city is going to look like tomorrow when I go into work. And the parade! There’s going to be a parade!

The Red Sox are World Series Champions. Say it with me. Read it out loud: The Red Sox are World Series Champions.

Sounds good, doesn’t it?

I mean, this is huge. My brother, who traditionally hates all things sports, has been excited about it, calling my parents after the games. Me, with my penchant for anxiety and defeatism, I was glued to the whole thing. Maybe a lot of people jumped on the bandwagon and maybe that’s bad, but I think it’s good. Let everyone enjoy themselves. We’ve waited eighty-six years, baby!

Maybe it’s huge enough to, as Curt just said, let us remember Buckner for the good years instead of the ball between the legs and let us remember all the others who done good but never got here.

Maybe it’s even huge enough that, combined with two Pats championships in three years, it will get the Celts off their ass and back to greatness.

Ahhhhh, who am I kidding?

The Red Sox are World Series Champions. I really do like the sound of that.