A Red Sox Fan Waxes Obnoxious

This morning, I'm crunching out to my car among the fallen leaves of November when I look down and notice something unusual. Instead of sporting the expected variety of hues, the fallen leaves are all a bright golden yellow. The leaves still clinging to the tree limbs above me? A bright golden yellow. It's as if nature has conspired to extend the reminiscence of this past baseball season by strewing a mantle of glory in its wake.

I know that sounds dopey and florid, but it's really how I feel. Everything I meet still seems suffused with the events of the previous week. I even watched the victory parade Saturday without being reminded how much I hate those freakin' duck boats. I was prepared for the euphoric spike of last Wednesday night; I could not have known how durable the satisfaction of this championship would be.

Soon enough, the haggling will begin. "Who can we keep?" "He wants how much to stay?" "A-Rod's joined the Hare What-nas?" The rasp of expectation crackles underfoot. For now, though, these ears still hear the jubilant hush of a season with more glory still to be shed.

I have, however, come back to my senses about those freakin' duck boats.