Dirty Water

The mark of a powerful moment is how it affects us when we reflect upon it. Sometimes we cannot predict the effect something will have down the road. Other times we know immediately that we have witnessed something great.

The night of Wednesday, Oct. 30 was one of the latter. Standing on my charming tiny wooden seat with the obstructed view, I held my breath as Red Sox’ closer Koji Uehara fanned the NL regular season leader in hits, Matt Carpenter, on a low and away split-fingered fastball. By all other accounts, the eruption of noise was deafening as Boston celebrated the end of the most up-and-down three-year cycle that any sports franchise has ever known. However, for me, the park was silent. I threw my hands in the air and tilted my head back and shouted like every other jubilant die-hard, but I heard nothing and felt nothing as I fell into a numb state of disbelief that lasted for a few moments.

That victory meant a great deal to New England, the city of Boston, Red Sox fans and me. The championship is Boston’s eighth in the past 11 years among the four major sports, beginning with the Patriots in 2002, and including the first title in 22 years for the Celtics, 39 years for the Bruins and a staggering 86 for the Sox, indisputably giving Boston claim to the moniker Titletown. Yet this one was different for Boston and for me.

Firstly, look at this team. How different from the preseason favorites to win it all that took the field in 2011, that led the division into September and then burst into flames under the chicken and beer scandal and turned away many fans with their careless and pompous attitudes.

The following calendar year was a comedy of errors. Terry Francona was jettisoned for lame duck Bobby Valentine, who let his overpaid crew of whiners flail their way to a 69-93 finish. Before the season was over, formerly critical superstars were shipped off, and the players completely alienated themselves from the fans.

By spring training of 2013, most fans had given up hope. The team on the field looked like a ragged bunch of outcasts, but from inside Ft. Myers the mood was different.

On March 27, days before the season opener, captain Dustin Pedroia tweeted, “Only thing I ask is u believe now! Don’t jump on later. It’s going to be special.”

Pedey was right. We fell in love with this squad of bearded miscreants that had the same balls-to-the-wall passion for the game that the ’04 Idiots showed en route to a championship.

Then, on April 15, the season took on monumental significance. The boming at the Boston Marathon killed three innocent people: Krystle Campbell, 29; Lu Lingzi, 23; and Martin Richard, eight. Days later the bombers attacked and shot dead a fourth victim, MIT police officer Sean Collier, 27.

Initially, I failed to grasp the magnitude of the explosion. Then I began to realize all of the people I knew who were in the city and at the marathon. A friend’s mom who had left the site of the bombing 20 minutes before. A high school friend who attends Northeastern. Another that was running in the race.

Perhaps it was not fair to project our fear and uncertainty onto the boys of summer. But nevertheless we did. And when Big Papi declared that “This is our f****** city,” every New Englander and Sox fan knew that to be true. We looked to a group of ballplayers to become heroes, not to forget the victims or the heroes of the Boston police force or men like Carlos Arredondo, the man in the cowboy hat who saved lives by quickly jumping to the aid of the wounded, but rather so that every day we could watch this team and collectively put away that tragedy for a few hours.

This is what makes sports great. The displays of athletic achievement are mind-blowing, but it is how the games and the players affect our personal lives that make it something more.

Upon coming out of my state of paralysis I sent my dad a text message with a picture of the celebration and a caption that read, “I love you.” We have had our problems recently but I knew he was watching at that moment and wishing I had been with him. That night reminded me why I love and need my father.

For that I will always be thankful to the beards. I will always love the Red Sox. I will always love that dirty water.

Boston, you’re my home.