This is me, deliberately ignoring the champagne-soaked festival of man-love up in Toronto that NESN so helpfully showed following tonight's loss to the Minnesota Twins.
Instead, let me focus on two moments having to do with the city and the team that I care about, and leave the rest alone.
I'm busy with work this week and some of it is taking place in Boston. I'm commuting on the T, something I've never done before. Tonight, right around the time David Ortiz hit his 50th home run to tie the Red Sox' team record, the red line train I was riding on on my way home crested the hill from the tunnel to the elevated platform at the Charles / M.G.H. stop, and in the windows the pitch black of the underground was replaced with the twinkling vista of Boston at night. Straight ahead out the window opposite me were the Hancock and Prudential towers, glowing across the placid water of the Charles. To the right of them the Citgo sign repeated its ritualistic patterns of neon.
Between those two icons another, brighter, white light shone on the horizon--the light towers of Fenway Park. The train clattered out of the station and I watched those lights until we were back underground.
Later on, at home, I saw the replay of the home run: after rounding first base, he pumped his right fist in the direction of the bleachers where his record-tying moon shot had landed, a gesture that called to mind some of the best memories of my life from those nights in October 2004.
Nothing can outweigh the pure poetry of that moment, or the moment Ortiz came to the top of the steps for his curtain call, and the fans just behind the dugout literally jumped when they saw him, flinging open their arms like they all wanted hugs.
Forget the playoffs, forget the Yankees, screw the standings, and the hell with this whole wretched season. These are the memories I'm taking with me.