on victory and euphoria
One year ago exactly, I stopped crying.
A lot of people write about the exhilaration of watching your team win it all, and I won't deny that it's fantastic. But for me, the best part came after the flip to first, after the on-field celebration, after the teeming masses spilled into Kenmore Square for the party of a lifetime.
The win itself is great, but the aftermath is better. A win is a moment; it's what comes after that counts. It's what happens when it all sinks in -- when you're done screaming and when the tears of joy have finally stopped, what happens when the initial shock has worn off and you can actually think straight -- that sticks with you.
I barely remember the bottom of the ninth inning. I know it went Pujols-Rolen-Edmonds-Edgar, and I know that Rolen flied out and Edmonds went down swinging, but it's filtered and fogged, kaleidescope memories, and all I really remember are the dents my fingernails left in my palms. Keith Foulke flipped to first, and I broke down in hysterical tears, hugging everyone in sight; I've seen photos from that night, but I don't remember the flashbulbs.
But I remember Kenmore. I remember finding Pam, Juli, my suitemates, some people I hadn't seen since freshman year and people I haven't seen since, hugging near-strangers with shiny streaks on their faces, dried-out tears dissolved in the wake of victory. I remember standing along a now-demolished road divider, balancing on the edge of the wobbly brick and craning my neck to see if I could spot anything that could make that moment more special.
I remember the guy who dropped to his knees and kissed the ground, right where Beacon meets Commonwealth. He stayed there afterwards, hands flat on the pavement and eyes scanning the crowd, like if he blinked, everyone would disappear.
I remember getting back to my room and collapsing on my bed, still wearing my jersey with salt-stained cheeks, and thinking that it would never really sink in.
And that feeling? When you know that something fantastic has just happened, something truly spectacular, and you know it's just going to get better from there? That's the best feeling in the world. Post-championship euphoria, man. It wells up from somewhere deep inside, and for a while, you think that nothing can ever go wrong again.
I envy White Sox fans that feeling, and I hope they appreciate it; all throughout New England's Winter of Bliss, through DVD releases and trophy tours and merchandising merchandising merchandising and constant reminders that the Red Sox had won the World Series, it never got any better than that singular moment in Kenmore Square, when that guy just kissed the ground and I thanked God I was there to see it.
Enjoy it, White Sox fans. And congratulations.
A lot of people write about the exhilaration of watching your team win it all, and I won't deny that it's fantastic. But for me, the best part came after the flip to first, after the on-field celebration, after the teeming masses spilled into Kenmore Square for the party of a lifetime.
The win itself is great, but the aftermath is better. A win is a moment; it's what comes after that counts. It's what happens when it all sinks in -- when you're done screaming and when the tears of joy have finally stopped, what happens when the initial shock has worn off and you can actually think straight -- that sticks with you.
I barely remember the bottom of the ninth inning. I know it went Pujols-Rolen-Edmonds-Edgar, and I know that Rolen flied out and Edmonds went down swinging, but it's filtered and fogged, kaleidescope memories, and all I really remember are the dents my fingernails left in my palms. Keith Foulke flipped to first, and I broke down in hysterical tears, hugging everyone in sight; I've seen photos from that night, but I don't remember the flashbulbs.
But I remember Kenmore. I remember finding Pam, Juli, my suitemates, some people I hadn't seen since freshman year and people I haven't seen since, hugging near-strangers with shiny streaks on their faces, dried-out tears dissolved in the wake of victory. I remember standing along a now-demolished road divider, balancing on the edge of the wobbly brick and craning my neck to see if I could spot anything that could make that moment more special.
I remember the guy who dropped to his knees and kissed the ground, right where Beacon meets Commonwealth. He stayed there afterwards, hands flat on the pavement and eyes scanning the crowd, like if he blinked, everyone would disappear.
I remember getting back to my room and collapsing on my bed, still wearing my jersey with salt-stained cheeks, and thinking that it would never really sink in.
And that feeling? When you know that something fantastic has just happened, something truly spectacular, and you know it's just going to get better from there? That's the best feeling in the world. Post-championship euphoria, man. It wells up from somewhere deep inside, and for a while, you think that nothing can ever go wrong again.
I envy White Sox fans that feeling, and I hope they appreciate it; all throughout New England's Winter of Bliss, through DVD releases and trophy tours and merchandising merchandising merchandising and constant reminders that the Red Sox had won the World Series, it never got any better than that singular moment in Kenmore Square, when that guy just kissed the ground and I thanked God I was there to see it.
Enjoy it, White Sox fans. And congratulations.
posted by Suzie at 12:48 AM
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