My marathon hell

Baseball can be brutally boring. Trust me, I know. Growing up in Boston, though, it’s been a huge part of my life. The Red Sox were introduced to me as family. There was mom, dad, brother, and the Sox. Each retirement, trade or change in line-up was bittersweet, like an older brother graduating and going off to college. The New York Yankees franchise was the perverted uncle I was told to stay away from at Christmas.

As I grew older, my love for these guys only grew. Truth be told, my relationship with the Sox is the most loving one I’ve ever had. (Sorry exes, but it’s really true.) Therefore, when I left Boston for Dublin in late August, I was sceptical about saying goodbye to the boys right before the post-season. Then again, it’s the Sox; they won the World Series in 2004, but prior to that, it had been 86 years. As much as I love that team, they do have a tendency to break hearts each October. I saw my travelling as an opportunity to get into soccer or rugby instead. I’d be just fine missing one fall at Fenway Park.
Well, I was wrong. The clock struck 4.30am here when Papelbon struck out the last man at bat and the Sox won the Series. I screamed, I cried, and threw things around the room because I didn’t know what else to do. My ears were buzzing and my breath was short one hour later when I realised, for the first time since August, I was homesick. Not for family or friends, or any of that sentimental crap; I’ll see them near Christmas. I missed the roars of Fenway. I missed the drunken rallies, riots and stripping that takes place after such a win. I missed ballpark beer and hot dogs. And I don’t even like hot dogs.
When I went over to my computer to check out the live camera at Fenway, a message popped up from a Yankees fan I worked with this summer. I forgot that I’d agreed if the Sox won the Series, I’d run the Dublin Marathon because she was running one back home that same day. Well, she definitely didn’t forget, and definitely wasn’t joking. She wanted photographic, video and any type of evidence that I actually ran this thing – in Red Sox gear, no less.
With the help of championship energy, and maybe a little alcohol, I convinced two of my friends to run it with me. We tossed on our white and blue jerseys, high red socks, laced up our running sneakers, picked up some Red Bull and hoped for the best.
By mile eight, I wanted to trip every skinny woman who flew by as I questioned my sanity. The looks on my friends’ faces made me think they’d never talk to me again. The buzz of both celebration toasts and Red Bull wore off and my legs felt like lead as we trucked on. However, if the Sox can win the Series, I could run (gulp) 16 more miles.
Approaching nine, a group of runners came up from behind us and broke into a tired rendition of ‘Sweet Caroline’, traditionally played during the eighth inning at home games. We sang along, did the usual Boston chants, and even yelled at a Yankees fan that growled as he ran by. I finally felt as though my first love, Boston, had met my new love, Dublin, and immediately hit it off.
The spectators jumped into the scene as well. Some people knew what our shirts meant, while others had no idea what ‘sox’ were; it didn’t matter, though, because they all sang and cheered anyway.
I saw parts of Dublin I never saw before, and probably wouldn’t have seen otherwise. Also, we ran so slowly that it was really hard to miss a thing. We met some amazing people along the way to the finish line, a few of whom I still see on the bus in the morning and always get a smile from. And I thought I loved this place before.
At mile marker 26, I felt like Papelbon in the ninth inning. I was a little shaky but ready to get this thing over with. Once I realised that the finish line wasn’t a mirage, I picked up speed and, whether out of pure joy or lack of necessary oxygen, was overwhelmed with a feeling of fulfillment and satisfaction I didn’t know old, beat-up running sneakers could produce.
Unfortunately, because we didn’t have registered race numbers, police stopped us before we could cross the line. I was able to plough through two of them, but the third man was very large and picked me up like a piece of dust then placed me on the sidewalk. I was about to put up a fight until he said something serious into his radio. Getting arrested for running a marathon in Red Sox gear didn’t sound as badass as I had hoped, so we crossed the line on the outside of the gates instead.
That was fine by me. We did it. It may have taken a lost bet, 26 miles of pain and idiocy, and another four days of walking awkwardly around the office, but I felt completely at home for the first time in a long time. The pain may have gone away, but that feeling sure hasn’t.