Moving from Boston when I was 15 was a pivotal moment in my life. The early 90's presented a challenge: how to follow the Red Sox in a city without NESN, TV-38, or satellite providers who could come through. We drifted apart for a bit. I found no solace in the (spotty at best) Charlotte Hornets, nor in the minor league franchise that played across the border in South Carolina. I would see Field of Dreams on TBS and watch it only to weep at the scene shot at Fenway Park, and reminisce about the time 3 friends (Steve Brown, Jason Scott, and Nick Governale) and I snuck from the free bleacher seats I scored from the Globe, to approximately the same section, completely by accident.
I started watching games again as soon as I could figure out when they were on, but not enough to keep up. I'd been back a couple of times to see old friends, but we were too busy catching up to rekindle our mutual affliction/affection for the Red Sox. For example, at 19, we were too busy talking about college to strike up a pick up game in the cul de sac ("the circle") or gawk at one another's card collections.
Sherm Fellers voice, forever engrained in my conscience, I have now come full circle. I called everyone (um, three of you!) whose number I hadn't lost (um, most of you!) to celebrate the unthinkable. 8 games of beautiful baseball: fantastic fielding, heroic pitching, and rock-solid batting. There is nothing that I could say that hasn't been said before. Sure, a Red Sox championship could never undo my departure from Boston, but at least it could bring me back closer to some of my roots. I'm just a kid in Section 31, trying to catch foul balls with my hat.