In August, I, like many others getting ready to study abroad, stood at a relationship crossroads. Do you break up with your significant other to explore the world independently, or buy a web cam and hope for the best?
After five minutes of contemplation, I chose the more complicated route: the long-distance relationship.
The goodbye was difficult. I thought about all of the time we had spent together this summer as the hot days and cool nights flew by. My love only grew stronger as I boarded the plane to Ireland.
The toughest thing about my overseas relationship is the fact that I didn’t just say goodbye to one fella — I had to leave a whole bunch of them behind. Before my dad reads this and passes out, my long-distance relationship is with the Boston Red Sox. The days and nights were at Fenway, whether outside the park at 5 a.m. waiting for tickets or sitting in the bleachers for extra innings.
I’ve invested a lot of love, time and energy into this relationship and was heartbroken this fall without hearing the roars from my window, falling asleep to WEEI and being able to watch the games on TV whenever I wished. The closest thing to baseball I found was a copy of A League of Their Own. Although this flick touches the old ticker every time I see it, it’s not what I needed this time.
So the postseason arrived, and devastation took over. MLB.com accounts are crashing as quickly as my hope for a successful relationship did. The time difference was starting to weigh me down. Games didn’t start until 1 a.m. here, and it got difficult to stay awake only to watch the scoreboard change.
Luckily, one of my roommates finagled his way through cyberspace and found a site that broadcasted the series live and, miraculously, free.
The Sox fans here were pumped about the first three games, but we were missing Beantown more than ever. We needed to do something about this, and soon. The day before Game 4, three of us decided since we couldn’t be home to support our guys, we’d bring the Sox to Dublin instead by running the city’s marathon the following day, sporting our red and blue gear in support (and perhaps celebration) of the Sox.
The clock struck 4:30 a.m. when Papelbon closed it and Boston went wild. I thought I heard the screaming from here until I realized it was just ringing in my ears from my own yelps of joy. I jumped on the beds, started some chants and even shed a tear.
At 5:30, I was in mid-scream when I thought, “Crap. I am running that thing in two hours.”
My alarm went off one hour later. Love makes you do crazy things, I guess.
We started the race excitedly, running on victory energy and Red Bull. Around Mile 8, we were tired, though, and questioned our motives. That is, until a group of people from Boston ran up from behind us and started a “Sweet Caroline” chorus, including a humming of the instrumental parts, “oh oh oh’s” and “so good” repetitions. This happened about three more times throughout the race. For a few minutes, we were at Fenway once again and realizing why we did this.
Throughout the course, spectators and runners yelled, “Go Sox” even if they didn’t know what the Sox actually are. Those who knew the words joined in on our short-breathed versions of “Dirty Water” and “Tessie.” Those who didn’t just sang along with what they thought we were singing. All that mattered was that, for the first time, we felt like we flew Boston over here for a little vacation from the States.
At Mile 26, I felt like Papelbon in the ninth. I was a little shaky, but ready to go. I picked up speed when I saw my friends at the finish line. That line was the final batter, and it was time to strike it out.
Unfortunately, because we didn’t have registered numbers, the police stopped us before we got to the line. I managed to plow through two of them, but the third meant business. He said something intimidating into his radio and moved me onto the sidewalk with one arm as if I were a piece of unwanted lint on the shirt that is the marathon route. I put up a fight, but with my legs no longer functioning and the size of this man’s arms, I was doomed.
It’s OK, though. We crossed the line, just outside of the gates. We huddled up at the end and belted out “Dirty Water” like Fenway’s sound system after a victory. We headed back to the apartment, only to be greeted with a table full of champagne and goggles. The bottles popped and the champagne shower began. The floor was littered with remnants of the celebration, but it didn’t matter one bit: Our long-distance relationship with the Sox was nothing but a success.
I also couldn’t bend my legs at that point in time, so cleaning up the mess would be left for someone else.
Megan Murphy, a junior in the School of Education who is studying in Dublin this semester, is a weekly columnist for The Daily Free Press. She can be reached at mmurphy1@bu.edu.
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