I was born in New York by two
parents from New York who each had siblings and parents from New York.
Thus, I was born into a family that rooted for Yankees or Mets and Jets or
Giants. When my parents
relocated with my brother and me to New Hampshire, it was too late for any New
Englanders to convert me to their one true religion: rooting for their hometown
teams. For better (the Yankees) or worse (the Jets,) I cannot fathom ever rooting for the Sox or Pats. It’s just not in my DNA. For
example, “Sweet Caroline” makes me want to vomit and I strongly dislike the
Bosstones. So as a consequence of my Yankee/Jet connection, I’ve suffered tons
of abuse (I told you I was a Jets fan already right?) from my friends in New
England since grammar school.
After graduating from UVM in 1997, I moved back home to Hooksett
for the summer to make some money and regroup.
Like most college graduates, I was clueless as to the next step. Fortunately, a couple of my high school
buddies approached me with their idea about moving to Boston together. That summer, we found an apartment in Fenway.
At first, living in the Green
Monster’s neighborhood felt a little bit like being a wolf in sheep’s clothing. In fact, I completed my first night out with
the guys by sleeping in a Government Center jail cell. Notwithstanding the rocky start, Boston began
to grow on me after just a few weeks.
I celebrated my first Patriot’s
Day as a Boston resident in 1998. After
experiencing the marathon as a spectator, I knew I had to experience it as a
runner. I ran as a bandit the following
spring. In 2002, I ran again but this
time with a bona fide number.
I finally graduated from law
school one month after my last marathon.
That year, my first job as a lawyer was with the Middlesex County
District Attorney’s Office as a prosecuter.
During that time, I worked with and befriended (or at least became
acquainted with) a lot of state troopers and local police from Cambridge,
Watertown, and Somerville among other towns.
In 2004, I took a job in
private practice back in Boston where I’ve remained ever since. Around the same time, I moved to South Boston
and met Michelle.
Michelle had lived in Southie
since college besides living for a year in Watertown. We got engaged in 2006 and bought our first
home in Southie on the same day. Greta
was born in Boston two years later. (Gus
and Tilly were also born in Boston.)
When Michelle was pregnant
with Gus, we relocated to Easton and began the adjustment to our suburban
lifestyle. In the ensuing three years, I
think what I’ve come to miss most is simply the proximity to walk around in any
of the city’s neighborhoods including but not limited to Boylston Street and
Copley.
But fortunately, I still work
downtown. And we go in occasionally as a
couple or a family for various adventures.
My favorite Christmas present the last two years from Michelle was a “getaway”
weekend where I stay solo in a Boston hotel to write and take breaks for
inspiration a/k/a walk around the city or hop in a bar for a beverage.
On the day before this year’s
marathon, Michelle and Greta were gone for the day. I decided to take Gus and Tilly to Castle
Island. We stopped in Dorchester on the
way out of town to visit my brother and his wife. My buddy Phil heard we were in the
neighborhood and invited us for a visit to his firehouse a few blocks away. He offered to give us a special tour for the
kids. Unfortunately, the kids were too
tired to make it work so we drove home.
Throughout that Sunday, I
didn’t give much thought to the following day’s marathon. In all honesty, Patriot’s
Day celebrations have been sporadic for me. I can’t even remember the last time I
actually went down to Boylston Street to watch the runners cross. Part of the reason for the hiatus was definitely
because of a “been there, done that” attitude, but also because I get just
plain jealous whenever I watch any race that I’m not running.
On Monday around three o’clock,
I was working in my office near South Station when I noticed the sounds of
sirens and speeding cars. A co-worker
mentioned something about an explosion at the marathon. Shortly thereafter, I noticed my cell phone
wasn’t working right and next thing you know our office was evacuating.
Once home, Michelle and I
watched, listened, and read about all the horrors with reactions that probably
mirrored exactly what you all experienced.
My first instinct was to check up on the status of any friends or
acquaintances who may have been running or celebrating up there. I also learned that Phil had been working directly
across from the first explosion and thankfully, he was safe.
Thoughts raced through my
head as I waited for sleep that night. Over
the next few days, I struggled to comprehend the heinousness of the
tragedy.
On a primary level, I have
been heartbroken for those who perished or were maimed by the bombings. I am also devastated for the victims’ loved
ones. I can only imagine and hope never
to experience the impact of such an atrocity on their lives.
On a secondary level, I felt
violated personally even though I do not personally know one person who
suffered a casualty. I realized my
outrage was because the city where I’ve lived and worked and have come to love for
the past 15 years, was attacked for no justifiable reason whatsoever. It hurt even more because the Patriot's Day holiday celebrates
exactly what is so wonderful about life and humanity.
For whatever their reasons,
the runners undertake a totally unnecessary challenge to their mind, body, and
soul that requires months of commitment and training. The spectators come to witness the runners’ confrontation
with adversity and to encourage the athletes to succeed. The symbiotic relationship between runner and
spectator is almost a metaphor for life itself: we are either the one
undertaking a burden to overcome or supporting those who need our help.
My head still swirled with
contemplation. Then Friday and the
manhunt arrived. I immediately thought
of the police officers with whom I worked and met during my days at the DA’s
office. Without any verification, I know
that many if not all of them were involved in what we witnessed. Michelle and I rejoiced when the boat was
discovered.
I admit this may sound kind
of dumb. But as a result of my sports
teams’ allegiances, I’ve always felt a sort of disconnect between my identity
and where I call home even though I’ve only really lived in New England my
whole life. After the events of this
week, however, no such disconnect exists any longer. I am now and will most likely forever be a
Bostonian. I write that admission with
pride and satisfaction. I just wish I
realized it sooner.
~~~~
We owe a debt of gratitude to
all of the first responders for their bravery, as well as for the exceptional
jobs that they performed this week. That
means people like you, Phil, in addition to the police officers who assisted
with the successful operation in Watertown on Friday night.
We should tip our caps to the
public officials who simultaneously coordinated the community’s safety and the accompanying investigations. Too often, we voice our complaints when they
are acting as politicians but fail to recognize when they acted as true leaders. Kudos to the governor on down.
Also, let’s not forget about
all of the medical professionals who pitched in this week, particularly during
the immediate aftermath of the bombings.
They likely saved scores of lives because of their expertise.
Last but not least, we owe a
big high five to the Hub and her people.
Boston is a city full of characters and character. This week reinforced that sentiment, no
doubt.
On a closing note, I’ve
decided to make a go of the marathon one more time next year. Any of you feel like beginning the training with
me in cold and wet December? No? Oh, you must not be from Boston.
Phil is in the center of this image. You can see him without a hat in his black firefighter's coat and a silver B on his back. We're all so proud of you buddy.
