One of my favorite parts of Sophie's carpool is the conversations I have with the eleven-year-old boy who rides with us. We've gotten to know each other quite well and chatter on in the front seat while the younger kids escape into their own backseat fantasy world. I'm fascinated by what he thinks of things, and he's young enough to still think a few things I'm thinking are interesting.
Such as the other day, when we were talking about the Boston Celtics. He knows I'm not into sports or television, so he was astounded that I had once been glued to the screen watching a sports team make history. I was talking about the 1986 Celtics: Larry Bird, Kevin McHale, Dennis Johnson, Robert Parish, Danny Ainge, Bill Walton. They were gods. It was a long time ago. I was living in a falling-down Somerville Victorian near Davis Square.
I was truly having a moment here. Remembering scrambling with my roomates to be the first to get the sports section of the Boston Globe to read the rehash of the game we had just watched the night before. The gravely voice of Johnny Most calling the games. Getting to the Ground Round in Cambridge early and eating dinner at the bar so we would have good seats to watch the home games on their cable station. I'll never forget being in that bar for the final game and seeing grown men cry and hug strangers when the Celtics won the championship. And for a southern California girl who had been raised on Laker basketball, that was really something.
The Boy was amazed and appreciative until a look of horror passed his face. "Wait. Was that back when they wore short shorts???" Yeah, it was. And who cares how they looked in them. Because that wasn't what it was about. Way back then.
Have a good weekend.