My heart raced with every pitch as if I were a member of the team standing on Fenway Field with the rest of them.
With the final pitch of the final out, I jumped up with my fist in the air, hugging the person nearest me, celebrating along with the Sox on-screen. For whatever reason, the Red Sox winning meant so much more to me this year than other years.
I grew up a Red Sox fan because my brother's city league team always donned the name on the front of their jerseys; my dad was the coach. Poppa text me almost instantly. He was watching the game at home with Mom.
"GO REDSOX!!! WE WON...Champions Baby!!! Just like we used to win with Aaron."
I looked at my phone, slowly sinking back into my chair and my eyes glued to the glowing screen in my hand. In my head I read the words over and over, my eyes steadily welling up with tears.
"Just like we used to win with Aaron."
I hadn't had such a rapid shift of emotions in months and almost forgot how striking the feeling is.
It stops you in your tracks, like getting the wind knocked out of you, and somewhere between smiles, tears break through and it's hard to breathe.
After regaining my composure, I continued a silent celebration with myself, images of the night's game intermittent with memories of 13-year-old Aaron celebrating with his little league Red Sox.
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