I miss baseball.

I live in Boston. Lived, rather. There is an unwritten requirement for living in Boston, and that is that you must love the Red Sox. You don’t necessarily need to be passionate about sports, or even baseball as a whole, but you must adore the Sox. You must follow them at least from a distance, you must care if they win or lose, you must hate their archrival – the Yankees.



I grew up outside of Boston with an older brother; I spent my whole life brainwashed to love Boston sports teams unconditionally, even though we are often fickle in the expression of this dedication. We have resigned ourselves to accepting that we will always be the underdogs; no matter how many Superbowls we win or how many teams we conquer to capture the world series – it was just a fluke in the eyes of the rest of the nation. Each year, we must prove ourselves again. We are the best. And we love our teams unlike any other city.

Especially baseball. Boston may be a college town, but it really comes alive in the summer long after the students have gone home. All winter we wait for the lights of Fenway to announce the arrival of the season. Our nostrils yearn to be filled with the scent of freshly cut grass and raked dirt. Our ears wait impatiently for the sound of crowds cheering to rise over the age-old metallic green walls, carrying taunts and tears, laughter and cheers over the Green Monster in left field. We stay up late glued to television screens in bars, watching each game as if it determined our own life or death. We love baseball.

And there’s something magical about this love. It forms camaraderie throughout the city, throughout the world. We are forever joined by our passion for the Sox and for our unrelenting hatred of the Yankees and it carried overseas. Whenever I see someone wearing a Red Sox hat here, I don’t hesitate to run up and say hello. “Do you know what that symbol on your hat is for?” – as if it were more sacred than the crucifix. I don’t see many Sox symbols; probably two or three all summer (again, save for the many that adorned my brothers clothes when he was here), but of all that I’ve seen, I’ve spoken to 100 percent of their owners. I can’t help it. It’s that bond with home.

I miss baseball a lot. I miss my friends and my family, but as far as American culture – it’s only baseball. It’s the excitement of going to Fenway. It’s the overpriced bags of peanuts and disgustingly cheap beer. It's watching the boys play their heart out, winning with the loud encouragement of an entire population – the “Red Sox Nation.” It’s hanging out with my brother or father, it’s remembering past visits with boyfriends and loves lost. It’s being a part of the little people – there’s nothing better than sitting in the “cheap” bleacher seats starting the wave only to watch it skip the box seats whose inhabitants are far to wealthy to bother with silly crowd games. It’s screaming, being totally engulfed by the game.

Wow, I miss baseball.