Thursday, October 31, 2013

It happened in Boston*

For years I have struggled in a mixed marriage---I am married a person who is faithful to all things Boston, and it took me a long time to comprehend the implications of this relationship. Year after year, I have witnessed my significant other living or dying depending on the fate of the Red Sox, Patriots or Bruins. I handle the well-worn Patriots jersey like holy garments, and I keep track of the red sox caps. But no matter what, my still loyal Philadelphian heart inclines me to feel, I never go as far as this:
 Fuck the Boston Red Sox. Fuck your dirty beards. Fuck your scrappy-band-of-sailors persona. Fuck your iconic little ballpark. Fuck the big green wall in your outfield. Fuck the people wearing Red Sox hats, particularly pink ones. Fuck your undeserved underdog attitude. Fuck your celebrity fans. Fuck your regular fans. Fuck your riotous celebrations
Sure, I like Boston; it is an adorable pretend city. It is walkable, it has a good transit system, you can eat well there and enjoy museums. There is music and art, of a sort, and of course world quality educational institutions. Some of my favorite people live there, or used to. 
But something in me is grateful to Hamilton Nolan.

*Click here to one of the forgotten literary gems of the 20th century.

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