Small Town

There is this odd sense of unity that comes from being a Bostonian that I still feel 5 months after I left, and that I especially feel since the World Series win. 

That being said, there is an ugly, annoying tasteless side to it that I’m always hesitant to write about in fear of what people might say. I can’t even count the amount of times I get called out for “Turning Chicago,” like my birth certificate, college degree, hockey jersey, and former residences don’t matter because I left. I had to get out for that reason- faith easily became fanaticism and I stopped believing in what was preached.

Boston is the guy at the bar who picks a fight with you after he feels the breeze of you walking past him.
He is the friend that still gives you hell about something you did 10 years ago that only the two of you remember.

Boston can’t let things go. When it out grew its streets it moved the people instead of rebuilding them. It wastes not but wants it all. Boston is the shining first born child that loves to remind you of all the amazing things it’s done even if the stories about them are completely irrelevant. 

Yet, the second life gives you hell, Boston is there with an Anchor Man DVD and a case of Sam Adams. Boston has tickets to the game and is able to score the best seats because they know a guy. Boston, though audacious, blunt, and coyly inappropriate, is loyal even beyond death. 

You’re all family. You’re all blood, a blood that while rich with pride and devotion scars you quietly from the inside out.  


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