You’ll
never blow that up.
Then
there is the morning game. When I was young I found out there were day games
and there were night games. And there was one, and only one, morning game. That game was played by the Boston Red Sox and
whoever was (un) lucky enough to draw the short straw of having to get
themselves out of their hotel beds and schlep over to the Fens at around 8:00
AM on a Monday morning. That’s right –
Patriot’s Day manages to make Monday morning “Monday morning” for millionaire baseball players – but for
fans it was heaven. It meant meeting a
gang of people at around 10:00 at Who’s On First, Copperfield’s (okay – you get
the picture), trudging in to Fenway Park with the somewhat illicit glow of
having had something to drink before noon (on a weekday!) and then watching
baseball at a time of year when the game is still new enough to cause you to remember the Donald Hall poem Ken Burns put
in his film… “down under the frost line it waits, to return when the birds
return…” (that is, if you remember anything – after all you were in a bar at
10:00 in the morning…). It meant spilling out of the stands after the
game, making your way down towards the marathon, cheering some guy from the
copy room, or a college classmate, or that girl who told you at the previous
week’s party that she was running (“Which girl”? - “You know the one with the…" “ Oh yeah –
that one – she can run with those???”).
But all this comes after the morning game – the game that ends early
enough for the rest of the day to spread out before you with all kinds of
glorious possibilities.
You’ll
never blow that up.
And there
is the race…always the race. I ran it
once, when I was a senior in college, still in shape from football season,
intramural basketball and the seemingly amazing fact that, at that age, it was
still possible to keep weight off. I
finished right around the four hour mark, and they gave you three things when
you crossed the line. You got a Mylar blanket
(still have it), a container of yogurt (I don’t recall the flavor but, trust
me on this, it could have been called “Pig Poop” and I would’ve eaten it), and
a paper certificate saying you had finished the Boston Marathon. What they did not give you was a spoon
with which to eat the yogurt – but the certificate could be folded into a
reasonable facsimile – which is why the only thing I have left is the
blanket. The marathon, for its participants,
both elite and non-elite, is largely a “destination race”. Boston is not an
Olympic qualifier – it has lots of hills but the elevation drop is too great to
allow for a world’s record to be recognised (a ridiculous position for track
authorities to take, by the way), and it comes right before London, which means
that it always forces a choice on you if you’re among the world’s best. For non-elites Boston’s draw is its history,
its tradition, its “essence” – but it's either too hot, or too cold, or too
windy large parts of the time. But
still, they come – because, and I’m going to get technical here, well, BECAUSE
IT’S FREAKIN’ AWESOME! Because you go
from small town Hopkinton to Framingham where the railroad tracks run beside
you, to Wellesley where the girls line the road and cheer you on, to
Newton where the hills that you don’t even notice when you’re in a car become
HILLS and then into Boston’s neighborhoods – Allston and Brighton (or is it
Brighton then Allston – and how the hell do you tell the difference?), and then
into Brookline – and when did the Back Bay get so freakin’ far from
Cleveland Circle? and – “Hey that’s my cousin – what the heck is he doin’ here?”
– and then Kenmore Square (did the Sox win?) until you turn a corner and – there it is, so close, so close… (Let’s halt right there – because you can temporarily
do that – but here’s the thing - you might delay that feeling, but…)
And for spectators
the race is a smorgasbord of sights. The
start is incredible, a sea of humanity that bobs by in some kind of indefinable
rhythm. Or you can watch in the early
stages – about ten miles in – where there is always someone in the lead pack
you don’t expect – and where you can begin to have the following conversation as
the red faced frat boy who is about to end up on the losing end of a drunken
bet wobbles by – “ain’t no way that guy's makin’ it”. But the success stories outnumber the failures
and there is the great novelty shop of runners to watch – I’ve seen Batman,
Spiderman, Superman, Underdog and untold numbers of Santa Clauses run by
me. Figures from history abound – even some
you wouldn’t expect. Along with George
Washington, Abe Lincoln and assorted Romans in togas I swear Richard Nixon runs
the marathon every year. You can watch
for the celebrities – both the everyday ones (“I heah Mahky-Mahk might run this
yeeeah”) and the pure marathon ones, for the race creates its own. Watching for Johnny Kelly used to be something everybody did. Then it became the Hoyt’s – the father
and son team who run together and raise the spirits of everyone they pass. Or you
can watch for people you know – (“Hey – that’s my cousin – what the hell is he
doin’ running this thing?”) And there is the experience of watching with
other people and what that brings to the table.
There was the one year I watched from the hills in Newton with some of
my friend David’s relatives, one of whom told me about her tennis playing
exploits in Florida during the winter just past. Nothing remarkable about that except that the
relative was his grandmother who was heading towards ninety at the time. Gramma was deadly on clay.
You’ll
never blow that up.
But
Boston is a destination race after all – and the goal is to finish. People go there to scratch it off their
bucket list and casually say, in conversations held worldwide – “Yeah – I ran
Boston”. That’s why the finish line is
crowded both with people who want to be there when their loved ones cross the
line – and the people who want to see those meetings and just witness the endless
supply of joy that is brought about through those finish line reunions. “Gramma – you did it!”, “Will you marry me now?”,
“Take that cancer!”, “That was for
Dad” and, always, “I JUST DID BOSTON!”.
You can divert that for a bit.
Yeah – you can slow it down – but…
You’ll never blow that up.
You can’t
blow it up because (here’s a little secret) – you can’t really destroy the good
parts of cities. You can destroy
buildings, you can raze entire blocks, you can flood whole districts, you can
eliminate the very names from the maps – but if there is an honest heart to a
city – it comes back. I recall a certain
September morning a few years back – you think New York is gone? I hear New Orleans was wiped out by a
hurricane – but I also recall them winning the Super Bowl recently. I’ve walked the streets of Warsaw, including
the “old district” which contains not a single building older than 1955, but
which was lovingly reconstructed by its citizens from any scrap of plans or
memories they could find. Warsaw isn’t
supposed to exist – sentenced to death by Hitler himself – but I’ve been there
and it’s got some damn fine restaurants.
Speaking of old Adolf – his own Berlin was ravaged by Nazi pestilence
and split by a wall – but is now a great place to party. Hiroshima itself has overcome its demons to
thrive and send lanterns floating down its river every year as testament to the
peace it wishes for all and the sacrifice it made to secure that peace. Go back as far as you want – Rome was sacked
countless times – all that did is make it a more interesting place to visit. Even Troy – the ultimate symbol of a city
opening its doors to its own destruction - lives on. No really – it does. Troy is found in upstate New York – it was
the home of the original Uncle Sam – you can look it up. But you can’t blow it up.
Yes – you
can ruin a city’s day, you can disrupt its routine, you can create tragedy, you
can even, you worthless bastards, leave the blood and life of an innocent eight
year old on its streets. But if you
think, even for a second, that your puny little attempt to overcompensate for
what must be a seriously deficient intellect can inspire fear, terror, despair
or surrender – think again. All that you
have created is defiance, resolve, inspiration and heroism. All of those are traits that last much longer
than your pathetic effort to overcome them.
They lead people to do some crazy, wonderful things. You will find out the following about those people:
You’ll never blow them up.
If you go
out into Boston Harbor you will find a series of islands that have been made in
to a national park. There are still many
people who don’t even know this exists but it's a sight well worth checking out. On one of those islands stands an abandoned fort and you
can go to its top turret and look back over the entire city. To your right is East Boston, where the
planes are landing. Further on,
Charlestown, with its monument standing tall against the sky. Look to your left and you see Southie, the
hills of Dorchester, the Blue Hills marking the edge of Roxbury, JP, Hyde Park, Roslindale, West Roxbury (how
do they know where one ends and the other begins)? Over
in the distance the tall buildings mark the Back Bay, with Allston and Brighton
(Brighton and Allston?) just beyond. And
right before you is Boston proper, from Beacon Hill down to the waterfront and
just off to the right, in the North End, a steeple. On an April night over 200 years ago, one man
(who was obviously crazy) stood in that steeple and signaled another fellow (who must have been equally
loony) that he should go and try to stop the firepower of the greatest empire
on earth – because said empire thought they could use that firepower to break
the spirit of the people of Boston. We
all know how that turned out. So how can you –
you worthless little twit – think that your pathetic attempt to “terrorize”
Boston has any chance of success? Look
at this city asshole – and know this:
You’ll never, ever, blow it up.
