Last Friday, I believe, was Red Sox opening day. Those two words ignited a melange of pride, angst, hope, and competitive spirit in the people around my fair city (and Red Sox fans abroad, as Facebook would tell it). For me, those two words brought a sense of anxiety and foreboding as I called to mind the many commutes home from work these last two years amid the constant barage of sox fans trying to make their way to Fenway.
It seems there is some sort of "All-American" gene that dictates the love of baseball, hot dogs, and beer; none of which I'm overly fond of (although, my cheapness is driving me to cultivate a taste for beer. Way cheaper than a Pink Elephant. . .) Evidently, I missed the AA gene and went the recessive route. Baseball? Is that that boring game where everyone stands around FOREVER and occasional hits a ball with a stick. Oh.
And don't even get me started on hot dogs (although, I've been known to enjoy one about once a year if the mood strikes)
As such, what Opening Day means to me is that my already ridiculous commute on the slowest line of the T will often double in length. Sometimes taking well over an hour for me to travel the 4.5 (ish) miles from my office to my front door.
I'm trying to lace positive affirmations through my days as I steel myself for the season. I've even imagined myself being the one on the stuffy over crowded trolley that starts a "Yankee's Suck" chant. Adoring fans will crowd surf me through the air and cling adoringly to my game day jersey. I mean, I don't own a game day jersey and I don't know if the Yankees actually do suck (nor do I really care). Actually, I'd really just settle for getting home at a normal time without a black eye from some overzealous father making sure his 16 kids get on the same train. Now that might make me into a die hard fan of our boys in red and white (and blue. . .?)
Go Sox.
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