I took advantage of a gorgeous Tuesday and made what I expect is one of my few remaining jogs around the city this year. It seemed only fitting that I’d been given extra opportunity to lace up my sneakers and travel the path that would lead me to Fenway.
It felt good. I felt good. And I only felt better as I rounded the bend that would lead me to Lansdowne. News trucks stretched past Gate B. Seemingly every Budweiser truck available holding the beer that was being brought into the park. A line of tents, chairs, and Red Sox blankets meandering its hopeful way from Gate E and the day-of tickets those windows promised.
People are ready to make the trip to the park. Others are counting down the days until they can fly out to Denver. Every other person you pass on the street is speaking into his or her cell phone about the Series. You’re doing the same thing. Politicians are making bets on which team will come out on top. You are going to sleep hoping that it’s a quick and relatively painless series.
But at the same point, you don’t want this to end. You want the days to continue to stretch out in a languid Indian Summer, where there’s not only baseball, but winning baseball. You want to be able to keep running around in your Sox shirt and jeans, and you want to be bleary-eyed but victorious each morning.
Unless you either can’t stand baseball or don’t like the Sox. Whoops.
But for me? It’s a special time, and the next stage is about to begin. I can’t wait.
Brett, make sure to wear the jersey. 
