Editor, White Cover Magazine
I have to say — without you thinking that I value myself too much in a week that is really about much more than any individual, especially this individual — that I hate writing these sorts of pieces. I hated writing about Jerry Sandusky. I hated writing about the Vancouver Riots. I hated writing about AJ McCarron’s girlfriend. But, I did, anyway. For all of them.
I feel compelled to. I think anyone does. It’s the world’s watercooler, and the Internet is the office.
I always feel like everything that’s been said has been said. Anything extra — anything I can add — is only to serve myself and my own attention-seeking brain. Why should I think my words are greater than anybody else’s? (I hope you understand, I really don’t think they are. I don’t think anybody’s are, even Patton Oswalt’s.)
(*I also feel especially disheartened this week by everything surrounding Boston Strong. How has CNN turned such an obviously heartbreaking and important event and news story into a part-time example of what not do as a journalist and a part-time exercise in how to further your own career by becoming Oprah for five minutes?)
I generally try to confine my language — my work week — to sports and the stories surrounding. I’ll dip into movies (because fu*kin’ everybody loves movies) and coffee from time-to-time, but I try make sure it all funnels back to the field, or the ice, the court, or the pitch.
This is no different.
I’ve loved Boston since I was a kid, although I’d never been there. Since then, I’ve been once and for only one night. It didn’t disappoint. The people were frank and curt and incredibly and awesomely rude. I was able to take in a Yankees/Red Sox 4 p.m. game on a Friday. I went with 10 buddies and we all wore Blue Jays jerseys. Everyone at the game welcomed us — they talked baseball with us. Anyone on the East Coast can old a three-hour conversation with you about your favourite sports team anytime of the day. They just know it. And then, while walking down Boylston Street later that night, when we still had our Jays garb on, I saw a Bostonian in a patio with his buddies — them all wearing Sox or Patriots red and blue — point at us and I heard him say, “Hey, they’re going oot tonight.”
I don’t really care for their sports teams, even though I’ve never minded them. I find them annoying at the worst of times. I find them entitled to their own waft. I do, however, admire their ability for survival. I admire how they keep themselves relevant. I admire how Bostonians build tombs to their leaders and bury themselves in them.
Their teams — the Sox, the Pats, the Celtics, and the Bruins — have always existed in the way of every team I cheer for, and it happens almost every year. The Yankees. The Blue Jays. The Canucks. The Flyers. The Steelers. Even the clubs I fall in love with for a month at a time — the 2007 Colorado Rockies or the 2013 Knicks — have to go through Boston at some point.
I’m not sure how that damn city does it, but they manage to stay in our hearts and on our TV screens, for better or worse.
And, really, how can you deny their charm?
If Boston was an OC character, it would be Ryan Atwood. Or, Julie Cooper. Or, Luke. Or, Summer Roberts. Man, that show was sloppy.
Spend 12 hours of your day watching Gone Baby Gone, Good Will Hunting, The Departed, and then The Town, and tell me you don’t wish you were in on the joke. Sure, you’ll say you Charlestown and Southie look so cool… but, really, you’ll never leave Cambridge or Beacon Hill, will you?
It may seem shallow to turn a week about a city in turmoil into a superficial recount of the movies and teams you already think are talked about too much, but what am I really supposed to say?
CNN’s already taken the sympathy card. Anderson Cooper has been flown into another disaster. Every newspaper in America is suddenly realizing that they can turn a profit if they only turn this week into a profit.
Boston is Boston.
From Monday to Friday, this has been a week for Boston, and it’s still not over.
Time for Tea.