But most of all, you feel the t-shirt bearing Hideki Matsui’s name and number bleeding you underneath your jacket, burning, making you wonder what would happen if you just shed your coat before everyone and reminded them that a pennant does not a World Champion make. That you, of course, a Yankee fan, should know.
And that’s the truth, isn’t it? The New York Yankees, after all, do not have their number of ALCS victories posted outside the Stadium in the Bronx.
They declare World Championships, not the number of rivalry games won. You feel like this could be some sort of rap lyric.
And hey, can someone please tell you how many World Series the Red Sox have won since 1918 now? Can someone please tell you what the Red Sox are in the public consciousness, if they are no longer the Yankees’ tragically embittered, totally luckless rivals? What they are if not just another team that has improbably beaten the Yankees once in their organization’s history—but, of course, is still nowhere near the 26-time World Champions? Nowhere near the best franchise in professional sports?
…Even though the invincible franchise that claims that title is, now, less invincible than before?
Well, probably not. In all likelihood, there’s not anyone in this town who’d give you those answers, not without a severe beating, at least. And understandably so.
Despite Fox25’s harrowing footage of two women fighting, the random destruction of a Sovereign Bank sign in Kendall Square, and a man fleeing, resisting arrest, there is some objectively poetic beauty in such a win. There is something that you yourself acknowledge in the sheer improbability of the Red Sox beating the Yankees. There is something about sports enthusiasm coming to Harvard, albeit in the worst way.
And all you can say, in the end, is wow.
So there you are, again. Alone. You’re sitting on your couch in Old Quincy and you’re stunned, all but empty, the response paper and other article you’ve been working on shoved mercilessly to the side.
The game’s over now, and, you conclude, the score still doesn’t matter. You know what’s going to happen. You can feel it. You’ve seen enough games in your lifetime to know.
Curses work in mysterious ways.
But below the slanted white ceiling, there you are, thinking. Shifting in your shoes, more uncomfortable than you’ve ever been, wondering how in God’s holy name it got to this point.
April seems like an eternity away, and in your sophomore year, finally, you know what it means to be from Boston.
—Staff writer Pablo S. Torre can be reached at torre@fas.harvard.edu. His column appears on alternate Fridays.