After composing myself, I looked out into the hallway, where people were just moving en masse to the exits, and I quickly joined them. Where were we going? I don't think any one of us really knew, but somehow the whole campus wound up in the same place, cheering and celebrating. The more daring, and I'm sure thirst-quenched, of us dove into the lake, practically freezing in the late October chill of New England. I quickly spotted one of my best friends, and one of the biggest Red Sox fans that I know, and we ran at each other for a strangely coordinated mid-air hug/dance/cheer/celebration.
That part of my life was one of my biggest transitions. After having spent most of my life uncomfortable in my own skin, with very few friends I actually saw outside of the high school halls, I was starting to come into my own. I was finding my passions and developing relationships with the friends that I'd be the closest with for the rest of my life. Even if the Red Sox hadn't broken their 86-year-old curse that year, it still would have been a memorable one. Forget the Summer of George; I was smack in the middle of the Years of the Kerri.
In 2007, I watched the Red Sox celebrate another Game 4 from my very first apartment. I had graduated college a few months earlier and shortly after that, began dating the man who would become my husband. It was my apartment, but it was our apartment, and we watched the entire playoffs together. It was the first time I had ever been in love, and within 8 months, we'd be engaged. If 2004 was Kerri's Series, 2007 was Kerri & Matt's.
In 2013, I watched the entire postseason from the cardiac ICU unit at Boston Children's Hospital.
My son Joey was born August 28 and was immediately moved to Children's to undergo a series of surgeries. First, it was his digestive tract and a few abnormalities of his major organs, all fixed with a procedure when he was a day old. Then it was two heart surgeries, with a terrible blood infection sandwiched in between. The playoffs went on throughout his second month of admission, and much of it took place in the CICU, first as he fought off his infection, then as he recovered from his second heart surgery.
Matt and I stayed at the hospital for the entire time, staying in parent sleep spaces, and we watched each of the games from his room. We made it as festive as possible, wearing Red Sox shirts and hats ourselves, hanging a Red Sox bib from Joey's IV pole, putting him in whatever Red Sox-themed clothes he was allowed to wear (mostly his hat). We soon got a reputation among the nurses, especially the ones on the night shift, who would make excuses to visit our room and get score updates.
At some point toward the end of the playoffs, Matt's friend dropped off a gift - a baby-sized Red Sox bullpen jacket. It was obviously too big for him at the moment - it was a 12-month size and Joey was in preemies at the time - but we hung that, too, on his IV pole.
When the child life specialist saw Joey's jacket, she made sure to swing by on Oct. 30, the day of Game 7 of the World Series. They were taking photos and videos of hospital patients and staff members cheering on the Red Sox. And that's how Joey, wrapped in his too-big jacket, asleep in Matt's arms, wound up on the hospital's Facebook page and in their celebratory video.
During the actual game, we watched with Joey. When they celebrated on the field, we brought the TV right next to him and took a picture. Because as much as 2004 belonged to me and 2007 belong to me and Matt, in our lives, 2013's championship was all Joey. It was his, in every way, even though he'll never remember it.
Yesterday, the Red Sox received their World Series rings and we were inundated with highlights of games we watched in uncomfortable chairs, while IVs and monitors beeped endlessly, sitting with our tough little guy. He watched, too, this time on Matt's lap, wearing a properly fitted 6-month-size Red Sox shirt and infant cap and no CPAP regulators or monitor sensors. He squirmed and fussed and played with his pacifier, not knowing what his ability to do all those things meant to us. The last time we watched the Red Sox, he was mostly sedated, with tubes and wires everywhere. Now, he grabs his toys and laughs when I kiss him and stares endlessly at his dog (and ceiling fans because, hey, why not). The 2013 World Series will always be bittersweet when I think of all my boy has gone through and all he's overcome.
And it will always be his year.
