Watched game seven. I had to, for history, for posterity, for my childhood, for my people, for the fact that I used to say Tony Conigliaro was my favorite player, I think only because I liked say “conigliaro.” It’s weird the name still resonates in my brain, but the Tony C. I remember must be post-ball to the face. I was only three when he was hit, but maybe that’s why I heard his name.

I was home, and M. called at the end of the ninth inning so we could watch the Yankees lose together. Even though we weren’t physically together, it was better than watching the Red Sox blow it last year, which we watched in the same room on the same couch. I think I’m going to have to go down to Yawkee Way and see if I can get him a championship hat. Although, since he’s so “thugg,” he wants a ski cap not a baseball cap. Gansgta M.

Baseball always surprises me at the end of the season, because you find out who has been paying attention. My friend Liz called after it was over to find out if I was hanging out anywhere crazy. I called my sister in Wyoming, she was PUMPED. Apparently, she’s been wearing her pink cap into work and writing inspirational notes like “Go Red Sox,” on the white board every morning.

(As an aside for why I think working in health care is essentially flawed and I may never go back, my sister had a story. So, she’s been writing pro-Sox propoganda at work (in Jackson, WY) during the playoffs and since there are a lot of transplanted Northeastern folks, it’s fine. However, yesterday, one of the most senior doctors was coming in, so one of the nurses (I think she said nurses) ERASED the board, so he wouldn’t see such frivolity. When my sister asked why, she said something about appropriateness or professionalism or something of that ilk.

The ruling class doctor, who my sister knew to actually be a baseball fan, I think of the Cubbies, no less, ergo knowledgeable about sports heartbreak, came into the place and the first thing he did, was draw a giant pair of sox on the whiteboard and “Go Sox.” That one remained on the board.

What this story illustrates about working at a healthcare or research facility, as does this story, is that there is always someone up your ass trying to prove he/she knows more or better than you. In many ways, while touting the benevolence and overall wonderfulness of working for a “good cause,” hospitals are the sickest fucking places to work. The employees are as miserable and self-serving and craven as in any Fortune 500 business, but what is worse and more dishonest is they pretend they are not. So, as your back is stabbed, the violent thrusting penetration of your rended flesh is presented to you as a worthy, laudable necessity. Yeah, you’re all open-minded and generous, and I’m the fucking Queen of Sheba.

Hmmm. I guess I’m still a tad angry.)

Anyway, back to the title of this post. When exactly did we all become a “nation,” as in Red Sox Nation? That has to be at least as goofily over-reaching as calling NY the “Evil Empire.”

Another question I have is why do people congregate near Fenway (or any other sports stadia) at moments like last night’s? From my back porch, I watched the squadron of helicopters hugging the sky above Kenmore last night, while simultaneously tuning in to the local channels news coverage. I, personally, have never had a moment where I thought, “HEY, I’m going to go over to that now empty place the team would have been at, if the game wasn’t just in a whole other city.” Are there any other events besides sports where when something good happens you mill around where it didn’t happen?

While I talked to my sister for a while, gradually the honking, random cheering and helicopter noises from the outside world gradually subsided. I like living in East Cambridge, where you can hear and keep an eye on Boston without actually being there.