If I could go back in time, I’d go see Red Sox games.  Opening day at Fenway in 1912, Babe Ruth’s 700th home run, Ted Williams’ .400 season, Yaz, Fisk, Nomar; I’d relive 2004 in all of its “Band of Idiots” glory.  “Red Sox fans have longed to hear it: the Boston Red Sox are world champions!”

I’m a romantic, and a baseball nerd.  I’m Jimmy Fallon from Fever Pitch.  I’ve read books on Fenway, biographies of Babe Ruth, watched the ’04 season on DVD, and screamed my throat hoarse at more games than I can count.  I have my home game jersey, my hebrew Red Sox shirt, my ’04 Championship sweatshirt, and my Ted Williams #9 Cooperstown Authentic shirt.

No matter how old I get, Fenway’s allure will never fade.  The park, the team, the game, it holds a special kind of magic to Bostonians whether we’re five, fifty, and forever.  When you step out into the stands, you get the feeling that anything can happen.  Each pitch hurtles forward with possibility: strike, ball, foul, single, double, triple, home run.

I am lucky enough to go to games every summer.  So far this year, I’ve gone to three, including last week, on my birthday.  At batting practice, a Texas Ranger threw me a ball over the bullpen and wished me a happy birthday.  Even better, I CAUGHT IT.  If it had been a Sox player, especially Papi, I might have died right there.  Easily one of the best moments of my life.

So I dedicate this post, and probably many future posts, to my team.  We’ve had heartache, frustration, and tears of anguish.  But we’ve also had home runs, wins, triumphs, and glory.  We are a franchise with storied history, some of the greatest players of all time, and the best ballpark in America.  Fenway is forever, this team is forever.  Red Sox, I love you.