From today’s Globe:
Around the same time, in New York, ecstatic Red Sox fans nearly took over Yankee Stadium, singing the Yankees’ theme song, ”New York, New York,” with off-key gusto as they crowded behind home plate to celebrate the improbable victory. ”These little town blues are melting away,” Ed Graham of Tyngsborough sang along with the Frank Sinatra recording. ”I’m not going to use that stupid word ‘surreal.’ It’s just unbelievable.”
Shouts of ”Johnny Damon is my homeboy!” and ”It’s all over!” filled the air around the stadium, where there was a heavy police presence. Thousands of Yankee fans had left the stadium early, including Yogi Berra, the Yankees legend famous for his phrase ”It ain’t over till it’s over,” who quietly departed before the seventh inning.
And, on a more sentimental note:
Across the region, children in pajamas and Red Sox shirts stayed up way past their bedtime, posting runs on homemade scoreboards and popping balloons on which they had drawn faces of Yankees players.
Fans across the region celebrated with family members, both living and dead. At the Breezeway Bar and Grill in Roxbury, Jack Wilkins yelled, ‘We got ’em! We finally got ’em!” as he watched the game with three generations of his family.
”First thing tomorrow, I’m going to my father’s grave, and I’m going to sing, ‘Who’s your daddy?’ ” a reference to the chant that Yankees fans used to taunt Red Sox pitcher Pedro Martinez.
A few miles away, near Fenway, Mark Von Duyke was pushing his wife, Joan, who uses a wheelchair, across the Brookline Avenue overpass above the Mass Pike.
”This is the happiest day of our lives, except for the day we got married,” Mark Von Duyke said as the cheering crowds parted to let the couple pass.
On Fox, they kept showing shots of the kids in attendance at these late games, clearly up way past their bedtimes. There’s no question that schoolwork has suffered, not to mention productivity in the adult office world. (I’d comment on the economic impact, but any losses must surely be made up by bar and food-delivery revenues.) Imagine, though, being eight or ten years old and going to one of these ALCS games. The kids fortunate enough to have tickets will be holding on to these memories deep into their adulthood, into old age, as shining things they will never forget. And it’s heartwarming, too, to see shots of eighty-year-old men, starry-eyed and placid, sitting in the stands with a certain calm intensity that can only come from decades of patience and faith, like devoted elderly churchgoers. Perhaps the older citizens of Red Sox Nation are the most lucky, for this is game marks an historic triumph, an unprecendented release for the long-faithful. Even barring a World Series victory, this is something golden to take with us through the rest of our lives. You can see the veil of the curse lifting (or blown to pieces and scattering, like dandelions gone to seed), and it’s like mist over the mountains evaporating in the sunrise after a seemingly endless night.
Everything I wrote (privately) about this last year is paling. We’re coming, like inevitable dawn, and it’s glorious.