I like old places, old things, old stories. I believe in appreciating value.  I love to see things and imagine the events that have transpired there, the people who stood on the same spot on which I’m standing at that moment.

It’s part of the reason why I love Boston as much as I do. It’s why I’ll be the person who’s walking right on that red line of the Freedom Trial, why I take in the view of the city and attempt to fathom what it looked like as the city was growing and expanding.

It is that which has shaped the list of places to which I want to travel when I make my way out of the U.S. Ireland is obvious – that’s where my family comes from. But there’s Italy. Greece. England. Egypt.

It’s why I gasped when I realized that Jeff Buckley played at Johnny D’s, a restaurant and club I frequent. It’s the grin I get whenever I run through the list of people who have played the Paradise or other venues in town.

Fenway Park. Hello. It’s the same sense of romance that I know will leave me breathless for a moment when I finally make my trip to Wrigley, a pilgrimage I hope comes this year.

And it’s why I stomped my foot in frustration as I stood inside the T and Kenmore last night, waiting for the subway to arrive already and just get me to the Garden.

I was freaking out not that I would miss the Celtics game, but that I would miss the pre-game introductions. I could not miss that moment.


If you haven’t been able to make it to the Garden for a game over the last few years, you’ve missed out on some great athleticism. This is a given – look at what our basketball and hockey teams are up to.

But what I love about what’s happening over there is the reminder that the fans who take their seats for a game are part of the new chapter of long, fabled stories. Each time the home team is getting ready to be introduced to the crowd, the lights dim, the Jumbotrons flash and a quick “in previous seasons” montage begins.

It makes me shiver* each time I see the Bruins pre-game production. As the music blares, we’re guided through the history of Boston hockey. We see the players, shots of the jerseys and the plays I heard about when I was young and didn’t even know what hockey was. And as that montage is being displayed above the fans, the ice serves as a frame to imaged projected below.

I wanted to see what the Celtics wound bring to the parquet. I wanted to hear the KG scream and I wanted to scream back.

By the way? I did. It was fantastic.

Truth? I think the Bruins do it a bit better, but I’m also biased in that regard. I am a fan of the Celtics. I know what’s going on with the team. I have my favorite player. But I don’t wake up each morning and check in to see what’s going on with the team. That’s reserved for the Sox, the Bs and the Pats.

But when you take in a Celtics game – or, at least, when I took in a Celtics game last night – I spent four quarters feeling that pride, hearing the screams (and adding many of my own) and looking up at the banners. And the whole time, there was a place in the back of my mind that tried to imagine what it would be like to be a fan in a city with newer teams, the ones that are trying to build the history that I get to savor each day.

The good news is that I never take all of this for granted. Reveling in it is half the fun.

*shiver, get misty-eyed, whatever. Don’t judge.

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