STK*x0	Female 25 years old WORCESTER, MA
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So it was kind of ironic, as I sat down to write this blog, I began to think of a title for it, I knew it had to be appropriate, and it had to summarize everything I’ve felt for the past ten years. I knew that it would be too hard to narrow it down to one word, but it still had to be short, sweet, to the point AND pack a punch. As my itunes continued to play on random [as it always does] a song came on. Now, the lyrics really didn’t affect me as much as the title of the song did: “A Decade Under the Influence”. It was perfect. It was everything I needed and then some. I have been “under the influence” of the Sox for a solid decade. Witnessed the downs and the ups and the ups and downs. I’ve had sleepless nights due to losses and sleepless nights due to sweeping the Yankees. I have cried and smiled and high-fived and cussed and screamed and shouted and cheered and jeered. I have gone out driving after losses and didn’t come home ‘til sunrise. I have celebrated wins for days and mourned losses for months. I feel like I have been an emotional puppet and the Red Sox are my master; they are my drug, and I’m an addict, I’m wicked inSOXicated, and I’ve never been happier.

Ten years is a long time. A lot has happened in said ten years for me personally, for the U.S., for the world, for EVERYONE. Let’s see, where does one even begin? 1998. Wow. I was in 8th grade. Yeah, deal with it, 8th grade. I was an avid softball/baseball and volleyball player and had been for quite a few years at this point. I was the only girl that played baseball in my little league [the three years that I played]; I was an all-star all three years. I think that was the beginning of the end for me. I was such a tomboy. I would get more joy out of going to the batting cages and playing catch than going to the mall like all my friends. Don’t get me wrong, I loved shopping, but I loved shopping at the pro shop and getting new cleats or a new bat was like a magical experience for me [I tended to keep my gloves for years on end. I’m talking till there was not a stitch of padding left]. I’ll never forget, when I was in the 8th grade I was by far the tallest chick on my softball team topping out at just shy of 5’8”…that’s like unheard of for an 8th grader, and I had to buy my own bat because all the other girls used like a 30/20 and mine was a 34/24. It was comical actually. I was a giant among mere mortals [or so I felt].

I played catcher up until my first day of high school conditioning…from that day on, I could swear my coach never knew my name, simply called me “arm” and I played the hot corner. There was no getting around it, it’s just who I was. I played 3rd and batted clean-up. It’s just how I roll. I was a 4-year varsity starter and an All-American at 3rd base, and I loved it. I will admit the adjustment from catcher to 3rd was a rough one. Y’all know what I mean. When you get so used to something, and then all of the sudden you wake up one morning, and everything is different. And even the slightest change makes the biggest impact. Kind of ironic, my swap from catcher to third came at the most opportune time.

Let me get back to my point. May 15, 1998. It was a bright, sunny day, like 90% of the days in southern California are. My mom and I got into her black Lexus so she could take me to school. I got in, put my backpack at my feet, buckled my seatbelt, and grabbed my mom’s little doggie Cubby from her so my mom could focus on driving [the damn dog always has to have her head out the window…spoiled brat…and the last thing my mom needs is something or someone distracting her from the road, she is a horrible enough driver as it is]. We were a solid 4 minutes into our drive, probably 3 minutes away from school at this point. The radio was on. It was KFWB news 98 [“All news, all the time. You give us 22 minutes, we’ll give you THE WORLD!”], they were making a late breaking announcement. “Mike Piazza, catcher for the Los Angeles Dodgers is in the process of being traded to the Florida Marlins.” “Mom, stop the car…STOP, THE CAR, MOM!” I couldn’t breath. I felt my chest get heavy and my heart started to beat slowly…very, very slowly. All of the sudden I felt them. The tears. They started to pour from my eyes. It was absolutely uncontrollable. And this is me we’re talking about here folks. I DON’T cry. [It’s just simply not my style.] I mean, I was a rough and tough “f*&k you up in a major way” kind of chick back then. You wouldn’t want to mess with me. Hell, me NOW wouldn’t want to mess with me THEN. [Scary.]

So as I’m sitting there, in my mom’s Lexus, with Cubby on my lap, SOBBING, my mom begins to drive. Before I can even get 2 words out of my mouth edge-wise to curse her for moving, I realize she is turning around. We are going home. I walk up to my room without saying a single word to my mom. I am completely inconsolable. I sat in my room and after there were no more tears left to cry, I started to get mad. REALLY REALLY REALLY MAD!! “How could the dodgers do this to me?” No, this wasn’t real. I convinced myself it wasn’t real. I started to rip every, single piece of Piazza of my wall. I had a sizeable room, and it looked as though it was covered with wall paper the way I had everything up there. There was nothing left 30 minutes of furry later. It was all gone. Not a shred of evidence that he ever existed. I sat at my computer. I decided I needed proof. Who where the dodgers getting in this trade? Was it someone so amazing that the team would dominate not only the National League, but the American League as well, leading them to another World Series win? Would we be the same team we were only 10 years prior when we won the World Series? I mean, we had 5 rookies of the year in a row since then. We had Karros, Piazza, Mondesi, Nomo and Hollandsworth. It was a solid team. Why would they do this? Why would they mess everything up by getting rid of the best hitting catcher of all-time, the 6th best hitter of the 1990’s and a sure-fire Hall of Famer? It just made no sense.

What package of players did they acquire for Piazza? They got Charles Johnson, one of the premier defensive catchers at the time, and someone with the potential to someday hit .250 with 20 homers. They got Gary Sheffield, the game's most celebrated goldbricker. Among Sheffield's qualities: He's the only player in baseball today who publicly admitted that he purposely threw games in order to get himself traded out of Milwaukee, for which he was not punished, but lavished with a $10 million a year contract. They got Bobby Bonilla, whose mere presence on the baseball landscape is a mystery to baseball people everywhere. People who know baseball think he is an old, overweight, overpaid, under-skilled malcontent who can't play a single defensive position with even a passable level of adeptness. But wait, they also got Jim Eisenreich, a 39-year-old has-been, who just adds to their list of other two left-handed left fielders, Todd Hollandsworth and Matt Luke, as if two of those weren't enough to begin with. Or, like Bonilla, he could DH, except that someone needs to tell these guys they don't have the DH rule in the Dodgers' league, which is called the National League. They apparently didn’t get the memo that this was not a good idea. [And I don’t think I need to mention that the Dodgers haven’t won a World Series SINCE 1988…] Hummm…could it be? “The curse of Piazza”? Nahhhh they have Torre now, he is going to fix ALL their problems…right? Right? Isn’t that the deal? They get Torre and then they get a World Series Ring? Wait…where are all of Torre’s rings since we got Francona? Ohhhhh that’s right, they are non-existent. Gotcha.

So, on this day, May 15, 1998, I, Kristen Elyse Sophiea, became a Red Sox fan. Ok, but “Why the Red Sox?” right? Right! Well. I sure as hell was NOT a Dodger fan any more, so scratch that! Angels? Who? Oh yeah, before 2002 when the Angels won the World Series, no one knew who they were. As far as I was concerned, the Anaheim Angels were not even an option, let alone a front-runner. Yankees? OK, look, my dad taught me a lot of things before he passed away when I was 6. All VERY important life-lessons. He taught me how to ride a bike, he taught me the rules of baseball and watched me play tee-ball when I was 5. He was always brutally honest with me. When I messed up, I knew it. And I always appreciated that and respected that about him. He taught me that I should NOT draw on my bedroom wall with crayons because no matter “how pretty the picture is, mommy and daddy will NOT be pleased with it when they get home from work”. [Yeah, I’ll never forget that day…] He taught me to appreciate the sport of baseball. Taking me to Dodger games in LA and Tigers games in the dirty-d. It’s just what we did. I was daddy’s little girl and he wished I were daddy’s little boy. ‘Nuf Ced.

But the most important lesson my father instilled in me before he passed, was that the Yankees were evil. I grew up HATING the Yankees. Of course, with such passion and hate comes knowledge. [Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer.] I knew more about the Yankees than I did any other team actually. I knew about their reign of baseball supremacy and how they acquired the Great Bambino, which cursed this Red Sox team from Boston. I knew they seemed to have every other little kid’s favorite players [except mine]. Everyone liked the Yankees cause they won [not this little girl]. I knew all about the M&M boys and how Maris surpassed Babe Ruth’s record, but it was on the last day of the season, and his season was eight games longer than that played by Babe Ruth. A record that would be broken by Mark McGuire in, none other than, 1998.

I was curious. [I was always curious about everything.] I did my research. I knew that my dad hated the Yankees; I knew that I hated the Yankees, and then it clicked. So as I got on my computer and started looking up facts about this curse and this rivalry, I started freaking out. I realized that Babe Ruth was sold to the Yankees 64 years TO THE DAY before my birthday. Yeah, he was sold to them on my birthday, or I was born on his selling day, whichever way you want to look at it. He was sold to fund the play “No, No, Nannette”. Ironic. My mom’s best friend’s name is Nannette [the one and only person I have ever met with that name]. It started to become more and more clear as I read on. I started to feel something inside me. I couldn’t at the time explain what it was, but now I sure can. The Red Sox fixed my broken heart. The pieces were shifting back into place and my spirit was renewed. Not because they were the best team in baseball, and not because they won the most, but because there was simply something special there. The history, the passion, the fans, Fenway, it was all unlike anything I had ever seen, or heard, or read about, and I wanted to be a part of it, and I wouldn’t rest until I knew all there was to know.

This brings me to August 2, 1998. It was a familiar place, somewhere I had been so many times before. But this time, this time, it was different. As I stepped foot into Edison International Stadium, I took a deep breath in. I knew this time was special, this time I was a Red Sox fan [and I even had on my sox sweatshirt and hat to prove it]. It was amazing. There weren’t very many people at this game, but a lot of fans that were there, were rooting for the Sox. [As I got older I came to realize this was a normal thing, as the crowds grew at the big A, so did the amount of Sox fans. We always out numbered the amount of Halos fans, and I was so very proud to be a part of that.] As we walked down towards our seats I remember thinking to myself: “This isn’t TV, this is real life, snap out of it Kristen and wake up and smell the coffee [or beer and hot dogs if you will]”. I had never in my life been awe struck at a game before. Ever. Again, this game was different. This time I was going see Tim Wakefield pitch. TIM WAKEFIELD. And not only that, but a sweep was on the line with this being the third game of a three game series at Edison.

The Sox started of quite well, 4 runs in the first and 1 run in the second. Wake was solid. My mom tried to talk to me a few times during the game; she learned quickly that I would not respond. I was lost in it. Mo Vaughn, Nomar, Hatteberg, Valentin and Wake. It was my greatest dream realized. Before I knew it, it was 8-0 in the top of the 6th inning. You have to give those Angels some credit though; they wouldn’t go down without a fight. It felt so awkward at first to be rooting against a team I had been rooting for, for so many years, Glaus, and GA and Edmounds and Salmon and Ersted. But I was so very ecstatic to see them go down. The Angels scored 6 runs in the bottom of the 6th. Wakefield was responsible for 4 of those runs and Rich Garces was responsible for the other 2. We beat the Angels 8-7 after they got one more run in the bottom of the 9th off of Tom Gordon. But we did it. We swept the Angels and I was there. I got to see it be done. And I got to rub it in my friend’s faces for the next few days [one of which went on to play for the Angels, what a coincidence]. Almost everyone on the Sox did well that day, but a chunk of the runs that game were thanks to Nomar and big Mo who each had 2 rbi’s that game.

I figured out the true meaning of trash talk that day. Don’t get me wrong, as a softball and baseball player and a baseball fan growing up, I always knew how to dish it out, and I had the attitude to back it up. But at that game I was sitting next to some guys from Beantown. Their accents, ohhhh their accents [yes folks, that’s the very same day I fell in love with that good ‘ol Bawhston accent]. Those guys, they taught me a thing or two about trash talk. It was the most fun I could of ever imagined. They would talk to me about why I was a Sox fan, and how I must be a “wicked smaht” young lady, and about how I should never give up hope that one day we will witness the Sox win a World Series. And when I looked at them and said, “Yeah, so then we can break the f*&kin’ curse of the Bambino. Damn Yankees.” [this coming from a 14 year old girl none-the-less], I think their cold little Bostonian hearts might have melted a little. I wonder if those guys remember me at that Angels game. Nah, I doubt it. But I will never forget them; I could never forget them, ever.

That year we got Pedro, still couldn’t beat the damn Indians, but we had Pedro. And that was something. 1999 would prove to be one for the record books by way of the All-Star game. Not only was it played at Fenway, but Pedro was the starting pitcher. [Which was historic within itself, seeing as how this would mark the first win by any American League pitcher in an All-Star game hosted by their home stadium.] So on July 13, 1999, Ted Williams threw out the first pitch of the game to Carlton Fisk; and the cheers from Boston must have been audible all over the world. It was emotional and loud and tearful and powerful to witness his return to Fenway. It was Pedro versus Curt as far as starting pitchers go, and the American League started dominating from the bottom of the first inning. Both teams were chalked full of great talent, but it was nice to see the AL pull off the hat trick and take the win 4-1, and see Pedro win the All-Star MVP Award, which was much deserved for his performance.

That very same year, thanks to the Martinez brothers and Lowe, we beat the tribe in true dramatic Red Sox fashion, and took the ALDS, and it was sweet [oh, so sweet]. Five games in total, 2 at Fenway and 3 at Jacobs field. The Tribe took the first two games in Cleveland, than the Sox took the two at Fenway. It was time for game five, back to Ohio. This game would be as epic as they come. Hope was in the air, and you couldn’t help but start to feel all warm and tingly. We were gonna do it. We were gonna beat the Indians and it was going to be unreal. Faith; the one word that resonated in my mind on a more than continual basis. Game five: October 11, 1999. This game was intense to say the least. It started as a major offensive battle. Nomar had a two-run shot to put the Sox on top [his second HR of the series], then Thome answered with a two-run shot of his own to tie it up. The Sox were losing 5-2 going into the 3rd inning. The Indians chose to walk Nomar to get to O'Leary. This would prove to be somewhat of a mistake on their part, but they set the stage for history to be made. O'Leary came up to bat and hit the first grand slam in Red Sox postseason history. The Sox were back on top until Thome would homer again to put the Tribe back on top. The Sox would then tie it in the top of the 4th, setting the stage for Pedro Martinez to become more of a legend than he already was. Just two days after being completely unable to throw at all, Martinez came into game five and made a surprise appearance out of the pen. Pedro came out of the pen and into the game with every intention of leading the Sox to their first postseason win in thirteen years. Martinez paralyzed the potent Indians lineup with 6 no-hit innings of relief, it was nothing short of surreal, something surely to never be repeated [and this my friends, is exactly why I have Pedro coming out of the pen on my dream team…wouldn’t have it any other way]. Troy O'Leary would homer for the second time in the game following another intentional walk to Nomar, this time a 3-run shot in the 7th inning to seal the victory and send the Red Sox to the 1999 ALCS against our dreaded rivals, the New York Yankees.

The ALCS would not turn out to be as favorable as the ALDS was. This should not be a really big surprise to any true Sox fan, but still, we were there. So close, yet so far. Two days after we won the ALDS we played game one. The first two games were played at Yankee stadium, and both were won by the Yanks. Both game one and game two were only won by one run, and game one went into extra innings. Game three on the other hand, well, game three was nothing but Sox! 13-1. Pedro vs. the Rocket, and we just killed them. Pedro struck out 12 and only allowed 2 hits in his seven innings of service. The only Yankee run came in the 8th inning, and it may sound cliché to say “too little too late” but we were already up by 13, there really was no need for it, the game was over. We did pay for that ONE game by surrendering the next two games at Fenway to the Yankees. Neither of the games were even close, resulting in a box score of 9-2 and 6-1. The Skankees did it again. Took away everything we had worked for. But hey, keep your chins up Sox fans, the one thing we will ALWAYS have is the fact that the first game ever played at Fenway was against the New York Highlanders [who, the very next year became known as the dreaded evil empire of the New York Yankees], and we beat them. So, I guess technically we can ALWAYS say, we’ve been beating them since day one.

In 2000 there was solid performances on behalf of Pedro [CY Young #3…? I think YES] and Nomar, but nothing to show for it on the team front. 2001-2003 is when things started to come together and the pieces were beginning to fit. Ramirez, Damon, Millar, Mueller, and Ortiz…it was beginning to evolve into a recipe for a major annihilation.

Well, it was BEGINNING to evolve, that 2003 ALCS was one for the record books, and in typical Red Sox fashion, they lost to the Yankees in the most dramatic way possible. I mean really Grady Little, why’d you leave Pedro in? WHY? And damn that Aaron Boone and his solo shot that made me want to take a knife to my wrists. F*&k the Yankees. But, this is the Red Sox we are talking about here. Year 86 sans a WS win was in the record books, and that book was slammed shut. Again…’Nuf Ced. [sigh]

Then there was 2004. Oh sweet 2004. When all would be forgiven, forgotten and rejoiced. If it were not for all the hardships, would the victory be as sweet? We watched. We waited. We cried. We sweated. We screamed. We cussed. We laughed. We Believed. We kept the faith when they were down 3-0 to the Yankees in the ALCS and you best believe we watched every game until the very last pitch was thrown and the last out called. We were rewarded. They did it. WE did it. It was done. The impossible was possible and it was more amazing than I could of ever imagined. I feel like my parent’s generation has this unity to them, that you can ask anyone in their age range: “where were you when you heard that JFK was shot?” For my generation, it seems to be: “where were you when 9/11 happened?” But the ONE question that will always apply to anyone, of any age-range is: “where were you when you heard the Red Sox won the World Series in 2004 and reversed the curse?” Well, I was in California, having a party for all my LA fan friends [and Angel obsessed boyfriend]. I knew it would be the day. I didn’t even have to call out sick from work; my boss called me that morning and told me specifically NOT to come into work. It felt kind of good knowing how much the people around me respected this holy day for me. I could feel it. I couldn’t sleep a wink the night before, but that didn’t matter, I was wide-eyed and bushy tailed and more anxious for game 4, than any game that had ever come before it.

When Foulke tossed that ball to Mientkiewicz the way I felt was indescribable, to say the least. I was awe struck, in shock, motionless, even emotionless for a brief second...I think I might have even stopped breathing for a moment or two, but it made me realize one thing, and this one this is such another life-long and important lesson, for the first time in my life I believed in fate. Everything happens for a reason. There is a reason that every, single one of us is a sox fan. There is a reason they just could not pull it off in 86 years. There is a reason, that on October 27, 2004, the Boston mother f*&kin' Red Sox won the World Series!! Who knew? Well, we did...but that's no surprise to anyone who kept the faith [for a year, for ten years or for 50 years] it was simply meant to be.

I sat there, on the couch, all my friends were around me…staring at me…waiting for my next move…the amazing thing was, I didn’t, I couldn’t, for like a solid 3 minutes I sat there. I had this big ass cheesy grin on my face, not saying a single word. Just knowing, deep down inside, that I would never feel that way again, EVER, in my life. It was pure perfection. The red sox swept the World Series. No matter how many WS were to come in the future, none would top this one. My heart was racing. And after that initial shock wore off, I screamed. I screamed so loud I’m sure everyone in MA heard me all the way from CA. I cried so hard I laughed, or laughed so hard I cried, either way, the emotions were flowing and they had no intention of stopping. I fell to the floor. I sat there, on my knees, on the rug, with my face in my hands. I finally stood up, I composed myself, and I jumped onto my boyfriend and just hugged him. He might not have been a Sox fan, but he knew what this meant to me…everyone knew what this meant to me. I walked a little bit taller after that day, it felt as if I scored the winning run of the WS myself, like it was all me. I was like Benny “the Jet” Rodriguez in ‘the Sandlot’ and I just stole home to win the game. Nothing could of brought me down…and nothing did.

Skip ahead a few years…2007. I will forever refer to this season of domination as “The One I Was Here For”. This season was such a roller coaster ride of emotions. From doing so amazing pre-All-Star break [I mean, who WASN’T stoked when we were 14 games up from the damn Yankees?], to having them creep and crawl back to within 2 games of us by the end of the season. Hey, red sox nation, remember that one night, when all of us suddenly became O’s fans? Yeah, that was a special night. [And not only because Papelbon danced a jig in spandex and a little kid’s Red Sox shirt with a bud light box on his head…naw…that had nothing to do with it at all.]

On September 26, 2007 I had the most religious experience of my life, and as close an encounter to God as I’m sure I’ll ever have: I went to my first Sox game at Fenway. Now, we were in the middle of a 2 game series against the Oakland A’s. Let me inform you of a little piece of information a lot of people might not know. My hero, my first love, my reason for living, the reason I’m a Sox fan, Mike Piazza was on the A’s at this time. He was put on the DL [at Fenway] on May 5, 2007. I was on vacation in Boston [trying to find a place to move to] and I was watching game one in my hotel room. They were talking a lot about Piazza and how no one knew when he would be coming off the DL and talking about his progress and such. [We beat them damn A’s in game one…of course.] Now, my day. I was there. Grandstand 16. Wooden seats. As focused as I’d ever been in my entire life. I don’t think the reality of it set in until after the game was over, that I had in fact been inside Fenway Park.

They were announcing the line-ups for the game. And all of the sudden they said it. The DH for the A’s, making his first appearance since May 5, 2007, MIKE PIAZZA. Ok, now I know that this may sound nonsensical, but it was a religious experience for me. Here is a player who I grew up loving, and is the reason that I am a Sox fan to this day, and he came off the DL at Fenway, at my very first Sox game in Boston. It was the baseball Gods speaking to me. They were telling me that all was right. Piazza hit his 427th homerun of his career that night. He tied the game in the 5th. A Lead-off homerun in the 6th by Dusty P started a 4 run rally, and Lowell drove in 5 runs that game to lead us to an 11-6 victory. It was all so amazing. Really, it was hard to take it all in. Right before that game I bought my lucky Papelbon jersey that now has a 16-0 record, and that game started it all. I am not sure if any experience will ever compare to that first exposure to this place I had dreamt about for so many years. I never wanted to leave my seat. I just wanted to sit there and take slow, deep breaths, and soak in every iota of it all. I sleep with my ticket to my first game by my side, and have every night since that game, and I’m sure I always will.

Well, the rest of the season played out just about as well as it could. The Oriole’s beat the Yanks, so we took the division, we swept the Angels in the ALDS and I had the distinct pleasure of being there for game three of that series with a wicked bad flu and a 102 degree temperature, f*&kin’ rally rackets didn’t help my cause any, but it all faltered at the foot of the sweep. Nothing else seems to matter when it comes to this team, and it’s unreal how us, as mere humans, suddenly can overcome so much just to see them win, or even to see them lose, actually, just to see them PLAY! It’s like they have healing powers. I sure as hell forgot I was sick after that game at the big A, and it was glorious!

We went on to play the Tribe. Oh that damn pesky tribe and their postseason abilities. Well, this time, we weren’t gonna let ‘em have it. This time, it was ours. And in true dramatic Red Sox fashion, we won. It took us seven very intense and nail biting games, and we deal with listening to f*&king “Cleveland Rocks” 64537892 million times before commercial breaks, and we cussed at those damn fag flags that they waved. But we are the Red Sox. We don’t need rally monkeys, we don’t need thunder sticks or rally rackets, and no amount of fag flags will make us win. We have TALENT!! We have veterans to pave the way for our plethora of young talent, and we are cohesive as a team. And that proved to be unstoppable. Coming back from 1-3 wasn’t quite a 0-3 comeback against the Yanks, but it was still amazing to witness.

After game 7 of the ALCS one of the most amazing things happened, I got to talk to big papi on the phone. That was the most awestruck I have been in my entire life. And that is really saying something coming from the likes of people I know and have met throughout my lifetime. I know I looked like I saw a ghost; Sandra is the proof of that. And all I remember was yelling to my friend “TELL DUSTIN PEDROIA I LOVE HIM!! SERIOUSLY, PLEASE JUST TELL DUSTY P THAT I LOVE HIM!!” Oh the crazy things we do and say when we are all hyped-up on adrenaline.

I was at game on! for games 3 and 4 of the World Series and it was insanity. I just remember thinking to myself [after the final pitch of game 4] "why is this guy kissing me right now?" and "OH MY EFFIN GOD WE JUST WON THE WORLD SERIES AGAIN!!" we left the bar after singing and dancing to “Dirty Water”, “Sweet Caroline”, “Shippin’ Up to Boston” and “Tessie” and walked out onto Brookline Ave. All of the sudden I was caught up in the moment [which, if you ask any of my friends, is not uncommon for me whenever we’re in Boston or anywhere near Fenway, I just stop and start to look around, like I have never seen anything like it in my entire life]. I couldn't believe it. THIS is what I had wanted for a whole flippin’ decade. THIS is what I had moved to Boston for. THIS is what life is all about!! I never, for one SECOND, doubted that I would see another World Series win after 04, but I also could have never even thought to ask for it to be in the same MONTH that I moved to Boston!! I knew there was a reason I came here, I knew there was a reason I left California, and I guess it just further proves my point of fate. I am fairly sure the AMAZINGNESS of it all still hasn't fully caught up to me...and maybe it never will...but all I know is I got to be here, and it was the most surreal experience of my life. And now whenever someone asks me where I was when we won the World Series in 2007 I get to say proudly “I was in BOSTON BI&*HES!! Right outside of FENWAY!! Where were YOU?” And up until that point, all other "good times" falter at the foot of the ‘07 World Series, and just don’t seem SO GOOD, SO GOOD, SO GOOD. [Except of course, that little ‘04 win...yeah...that was a little special I guess.]

“Believe it can be done. When you believe something can be done, really believe, your mind will find the ways to do it. Believing a solution paves the way to solution.”