My eyewitness account from the corner of Washington & Beacon streets in Brighton (a section of town just about 1 minute away from Boston’s Fenway Park, i.e. the epicenter of Red Sox Nation) in the moments immediately following the Boston Red Sox first World Series title victory since 1918. Soon after this post I was nearly bludgeoned to death by a mob of angry girlscouts. Oh, but that, sports fans, is a tale for another day.
win + 0 minutes
Curse ends.
win + 0 minutes, 1 second
New York fans proceed to eat the giant can of “SHUTUP, ALREADY!” that Boston’s been waiting to tear open for several decades.
win + 0 minutes, 2 seconds
Somewhere in Chicago, Nomar “I Just Want A Series” Garciaparra begins screeching like a 12 year-old at a Britney concert.
win + 0 minutes, 3 seconds
The dull earthquake-like rumble of an elated, screaming city can be heard shaking across Boston.
win + 0 minutes, 6 seconds
Silence falls as a city of elated, screaming fans take pause, waiting for the impending terrorist attack while an entire town has its metaphorical pants down around its ankles. Everyone takes a second to check out that one brown guy at the bar. Will he? Won’t he?
win + 0 minutes, 10 seconds
Brown guys everywhere do nothing. City wide screaming resumes.
win + 0 minutes, 15 seconds
Silence falls again as an entire city ties up every national cell phone network attempting to call a friend. Most fail to make it through; a few reach their friends, scream about how unbelievably wicked pissah this sh*t is, ask how drunk they are, then hang up realizing that’s just about all there is to say.
win + 1 minute
Scores of people pour out of every apartment building, running whooping and screaming through the streets, beers cans and empty tequila bottles shattering in their wake.
win + 1 minute, 36 seconds
Tens of cars peel into the intersection, careening around the crowds of people, honking madly, passengers leaning out every window, hollering bloody victory.
win + 2 minutes, 10 seconds
The Green Line elevated train screeches to a halt to avoid hitting the crowds of people and the careening cars as it attempts to make its way across the train tracks that cross the intersection, horn groaning like a beached whale. I can’t figure out if the driver is sounding the train’s horn to attempt to warn those soon to die under its grinding wheels, or in celebration of the victory.
win + 2 minutes, 40 seconds
Fireworks shoot up over nearly every rooftop, raining down on the crowd of people, the careening cars and the screeching train. Most likely a few .357 and .45 shells as well.
win + 5 minutes, 23 seconds
Police cars wail into the intersection anticipating the mass civil turmoil and destruction to soon ensue. Fire trucks moan somewhere in the near distance. As of right now, the Darth Vader-geared riot cops that have been making guest appearances at most of the city’s recent mass public gatherings toting eye-piercing pepper pellet guns and tear gas bombs have yet to make an appearance.
win + most of the night
I cautiously peer out a fourth story window waiting for either assault weapon fire to begin ripping up the crowd like freshly torn bread, a fuel tanker to careen over the sidewalk and explode in a fiery rage, or armored apes on horseback to gallop through the streets snatching up flailing human prey with their barbed nets.
Go Sox! Pass the flak jacket!
This one’s for Mellow:
