Fun thread. That was quite the day (or few days, or weeks) for me. I remember being in San Francisco a few days earlier, elated that I pulled a couple of tickets to the Patriots game that my dad was actually willing to go to with me that Sunday. I flew into New York for a few days of work at a job I fucking hated (more on that in a few). I remember flying up to Boston and going on this all night into all day bender with this girl I knew from San Francisco (through a co-worker's friend's roommate, or something) that was now a nurse at MGH, and because she lived on Charles Street at the time, more than enough of a reason not to catch the last commuter rail back to the burbs. The next day, after another ten or whatever hours of bar crawling Boston, I found myself far less than sober sitting through Game 1 with my dad, and shit on how awful it was, and how we were going to be no hit (we weren't, but fuck it), and how everything was terrible, etc. It was also my first time back at Fenway Park in five (?) years. Nice welcome. The next day, my dad and I went to the Blade; after Brady hit Thompkins, I actually (gulp) hugged my dad at a sporting event for the first time in who hell knows how long. For sure, I thought that game was lost. But what a goddamn moment. That night, I had the game on mute while I wound up having the first real mother-son conversation I'd had since probably high school, where I confessed that I was almost certainly quitting my hopelessly depressing big company job (which I did a few months later). I turned to the tv to my left, saw Papi coming up to the plate, saw the score, saw the bases loaded, and said, "yep, it's going to be tied in a minute" -- and it was. The next few weeks were a blur. I can't believe it's been a year.