and from your lips she drew the 'Hallelujah'.

When I decided I was going to write a Red Sox related entry, I had the plan of thanking the Red Sox for winning it for a litany of reasons. There's a lengthy list of people on my whiteboard. It's a compilation of the greatest, and some of the lesser-known Red Sox who never got the chance to celebrate, to rejoice. They ranged from the five men who've had their number retired by the team, Doerr, Cronin, Yastrzemski, Williams, and Fisk, to the two Red Sox I admire most for their unheralded roles in the teams of the '90s, Valentin and Merloni.

But that's up for everyone to see. There are at least two dozen names there, but the three at the bottom are the important ones that nobody can understand.

One of those names belongs to a high school Drama teacher of mine. She asked us to call her simply, 'Donna.' No last name, no 'Ms.', just Donna. There aren't enough words to describe her compassion and empathy, even for someone who claims to have a reasonable command of the language, as I do. I remember asking her once, in October I believe it was, whether she thought I came across as abrasive. I'd received the criticism from another teacher with whom I can no longer get along, due to an incident much better described in person than in print. Instead of giving me the standard teacher response, 'Who told you that?!', Donna told me that she could see how people would take my personality as abrasiveness. She also said that she didn't feel it was abrasive, but that it was confident.

This isn't even the most important part. Donna remembered the brief encounter when she wrote a recommendation for me. This was far and away the longest, more detailed recommendation I received, of the nearly ten I needed for various applications. It was also far and away the most heartfelt.

In October of last year, Donna and I followed the Red Sox playoff run with ardent fervor. We would discuss the previous nights' results every morning, as I showed up for a capella group rehearsals. We shared the depression of falling behind to Oakland, and the joy when they came back. We shared the home runs against New York, the fights between pitchers and aging bench coaches, the clutch performances from John Burkett. And we commiserated after Aaron Boone's home run.

Fast-forward to March. Both of us were excited about a season with amazing promise, with the additions of Curt Schilling, Keith Foulke, Mark Bellhorn, Pokey Reese, and others. We knew that this was finally the year. The season began and the debates with it. We debated whether Nomar would be better than Pokey Reese when he got back. We debated over whether Kapler and Millar were adequate replacements for Trot Nixon. We agreed that Bronson Arroyo was a much better pitcher than Byung-Hyun Kim. And we agreed that Dale Sveum was inept.

The mid-season swoon of the Red Sox brought much hair-pulling, second-guessing, and gnashing of teeth. We questioned every personnel move made, and every game's result. This was a topic no other student had invested in as much discussion with her.

But, as a senior, the inevitable arrived. By mid-May, when the Sox were beginning their .500 period, I was in my last week attending. That Monday night was the Cabaret and Banquet, an event in which the seniors get to perform one last time, and are given an opportunity to make a speech before friends, relatives, and other Drama Company members.

As Donna read the list of students who fulfilled their duties to the Company, my name grew nearer and nearer. Finally, when she got to the point where I knew I was next, she paused. She said that the next student was one with whom she'd gotten the chance to share her other passion in life, the Red Sox. As everybody had a program and knew my fierce devotion to the team and Donna and my collective criticism of the same, it was pretty clear who was about to ascend the staircase.

And I made my speech. Like I've written in past entries, I'm much more coherent and articulate when typing than I am when speaking off-the-cuff. I made a promise that I would return when, not if, the Red Sox made the World Series. I knocked on the particleboard podium to ensure I wasn't jinxing the team.

Well, I wasn't able to get back to Framingham. And I feel really guilty about it. I completely forgot that she'd given me a number to call to commiserate or celebrate with her. I can only guess that she's wondering why it is that I haven't called or even emailed. Well, I haven't forgotten my promise. Donna, if you're reading this, you will see me in the very near future.

And thank you. For being the only person at school who understood my passion, despite living only twenty minutes from the Hallowed Halls of Fenway Park.

At this rate, this is going to be the longest entry I've written. And I'm OK with that. I'm not going to be the person who does the typical, "I love the Red Sox because they won and I live near the Park" comments. This is real.

The second name on the board, below the twenty-four former Red Sox, is that of my grandfather. As soon as the final out was recorded, when Foulke underhanded the ball to Mientkiewicz at first, his was the number set to go on my phone. He's been a Red Sox fan since birth. He was there for all four unsuccessful World Series bids before this year. He lived through Pesky holding the ball, and Denny Galehouse's appearance in 1946, through the Impossible Dream season, with Bob Gibson crushing that Dream in 1967. He lived through Carlton Fisk's Game Six home run in 1975, but was also there for the Big Red Machine closing the door the next day. He was there for Mike Torrez-to-Bucky Dent in 1978. He was there for Bob Stanley's wild pitch, for John McNamara inexplicably not pulling Bill Buckner, for the result of that action in 1986. He saw Aaron Boone break the hearts of an optimistic Red Sox Nation last year.

And now, though he's no longer young enough to physically jump in ecstacy, he's witnessed the Red Sox do the impossible, in coming from down 0-3 to World Series Champions in a week and a half. The Sox did this for him, and all the other fans who have waited more than one lifetime to be able to say 'They did it.'

They did it, Grandpa. It's been a long time coming, but they did it.

The third name on the bottom of the whiteboard, beneath the litany of players past, is my mother's. She is the one most responsible for my devotion. She told me of when she was my age, listening on the radio to the Sox games while doing homework in the living room in Meriden, Connecticut. She was there for Carlton Fisk, and for 'Yastrzemski won't get there.' And she was tired, but there for Buckner, Schiraldi, Stanley, and Oil Can. She and my father baptized me into the Red Sox that year. I, being only an infant of three months, likely slept through the whole thing, but I was held before the television as Mookie Wilson grounded a ball softly down the first base line. Of course, my father remains convinced it was Game 7, which it wasn't.

My mother, after the Red Sox fell down to an 'insurmountable' 0-3 hole to the Yankees, informed me the season was over. She didn't watch Aaron Boone. She knew we would lose, and didn't want to put herself through it. After each successive victory the Red Sox rattled off against the Yankees, I called and informed her she was wrong. As I'd said when she told me it was over, there's always a first. Nothing is over until the 27th out, as 1986 proved to all of us. I was able to call her four times in a row and tell her she was wrong.

Thanks, Mom. And I will always be there to tell you you're wrong when you think it's over. Stop becoming Dad.

she broke your throne, and she cut your hair...

I haven't addressed the Church Closing Crisis in a while. The following is a speech I wrote and gave to the Appeal Committee at St. Jeremiah:

Eighty-two.

You’ve all heard that number before. You know its significance, its destructive properties. You’ve read about it in the papers, week after week. You’ve listened to the reports on the news from around the state. You attended the Mass on the Common; sat through the drizzle and listened to the homilies from Father Bob Bowers, and heard Father Ron Coyne speak.

You also know who I am. My name seems to have gotten as much print lately as Archbishop O’Malley’s has. I read. I sing. I have taken photographs of my sister’s First Communion. I have stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Bishop Edyvean on my Confirmation. I have watched as my father completed the RCIA process and was Confirmed.

I have written in the past about my indignation. I have spoken with many of you about my frustration. And I have participated with some of you in rebellion. But tonight, I’m here about my fury.

I am furious that the establishment has chosen to ignore our cries for explanation. I am furious that Bishop Lennon and Archbishop O’Malley can stand before the press and lie through their teeth about why these parishes have to close. I am furious that people outside our situation don’t understand the impact of telling a devout parishioner, “You can’t worship here any more. Go somewhere else.” And I am furious that the local vicar, a man who is supposed to represent the needs of all the parishes under his command, can betray us.

But most of all, I am furious that you are doing nothing to stop them.

How dare any bishop preside over a parish’s last Mass? I attended the final Liturgy at St. Ann University Parish on Sunday, and it took all the strength I had in me not to walk out. I will not be put in that situation again.

How dare the Archdiocese bite the hand that feeds them? We have, time and time again, given more than was asked of us. Money. Time. Commitment. I do not have the patience or the resolve to listen to their spin any longer.

How dare we sit here and pretend that Father Ron’s reassignment is anything but an act of appeasement? This system is scared out of their minds that every parish with any testicular fortitude will sit down and refuse to leave. They think they are throwing us a bone – how wrong they are.

I reject their deal. On the evening of December First, I will take my seat in that Church and I will stay there until they listen to me. I don’t care if I’m the only one, or one of a hundred, I will not be moved from my home.

Archbishop, you have no right to tell me what to do. I am a Roman Catholic, a parishioner of St. Jeremiah Church, and I will not be instructed to leave this building.

You think I’m an issue now? Try me. You think I can be vocal? Give me a reason to speak. You think I’m a radical? You have no idea how radical I can be. And if I am angry now, you will soon see my wrath.

I have been silent since my letter. I was not about to draw undue attention to this church. But if I am the only one willing to speak, so be it. I will be your voice, Lord, though I may be slow of tongue. Lead me to the Promised Land.

I can accept that from my position, it is difficult for me to know all that goes on here on a weekly basis. I can accept that work may prevent many of you from giving this all the effort it deserves.

But I cannot accept that we are doing the best we can. I cannot accept Father Ron’s transfer as ‘good enough.’ I cannot accept the loss of this church. There is no failure in our lexicon, only delayed success.

And successful we shall be. We are a group of ‘bad Catholics.’ And before this is over, we will be the worst Catholics ever assembled.

I am furious that you are not.

Eighty-two parishes are closed or destined. But stay the hand of the executioner we will, until they hear our cry, “Justice!”

She tied you to the kitchen chair...

I guess now is as good a time as any to write another entry. I've just finished my first one after a week-long hiatus, during which time lots of feces hit the fan. But that's not what I want to write about.

In my last entry, I mentioned that the post was directed to two people. I should clarify that. The statement "I know you don't read this." was what was directed toward two different people. Everything that followed is meant for one person alone.

And this is what is directed to the other person:

We were inseparable. I can remember times where hours were spent in each other's backyards, doing all sorts of childhood activities.

I remember long shootouts on my soccer net. You were usually the striker, I the goalkeeper.

I remember pretending we were the various Apollo astronauts. You and I took turns between the Commander and Lunar Module Pilot, and we'd act out the various occurrences from Apollos 11 through 17.

I remember distinctly kickball games in the Circle. That's what we called it, too, since cul-de-sac and dead-end weren't parts of our vocabulary, and even if they were, they sounded stupid.

I remember visiting you when you were ill, and watching World Cup games together. 1998, France beats Brazil.

I remember the occasional sleepover, which were usually at your house, since you had that cool three-in-one table, and a TV in the finished basement.

I remember the tricks we played on your younger neighbor, who wanted nothing more than to hang out with our little street clique. And we never let him. We thought that spraying his bike with the garden hose would make it rust instantaneously. It didn't, but that was our thought process.

But mostly I remember that we were always doing something. Sedentary children we were not. Be it sledding in the Pit in February or tournament-style soccer in my backyard, we were doing something.

And then, it was all gone.

What happened?

It didn't happen in elementary school. We were thick as thieves back then. Only twice, out of six years in the same class, but we always 'hung out', even though that wasn't the term at the time.

What happened?

It didn't even happen in early middle school. But I stress the word early. It was after sixth grade that you became ill for the second time, and we watched World Cup games together, but I could sense that distance was on the horizon (mixing metaphors here, just go with it).

What happened?

Seventh grade seems to have been where the line was drawn. I always hear people say that they 'fell in' with different crowds, but that's a really shitty expression, if you'll pardon my French, and I know you would. It was the small things. We didn't have any classes together. You took Spanish, I took French. You took Band, I took Chorus. And you were on the Red Team, and I was on the White Team. They've since done away with those distinctions, opting instead for T, W, X, Y, and Z. The rumor was that they did this because your team was the hardest.

But that's when the division became more pronounced. You sat with your friends from class at lunch, I sat with mine. There were often cross-overs, and days where we'd all sit at the same table, but the split was made. Kind of like a wedge between firewood. That's what seventh grade seems to be - the wedge that separates your childhood friends with your high-school friends.

I was in a bit of denial, for a time. You were always invited to my birthday parties, and you always came. There were 'hello's in the hallways, and the dip of the head to signify acquaintanceship, but that's what it became. We were no longer friends, we were acquaintances.

I'll admit it - I wasn't cool in middle school. My hair was nearly down to my shoulders, and I didn't understand why people laughed. I would wear sweatpants to school and sweaters in the winter. I was a dork. I wasn't Napoleon Dynamite, but I was a dork. And that's what caused the wedge, I think - you chose to go with the cool kids, and I went the other direction.

And then high school came, and you went to the private Catholic school, and I stayed in the public school system. I made other friends, and I'm sure you did as well. You might have stayed in with the cool kids, for all I know. I never rose to the level of 'cool kid', nor will I ever, as the sober one on the floor, but that didn't phase me. And now I'm here. NEU. A journalism major.

What happened?

We were convinced when we were young this would never happen. Little girls use the term, 'BFF.' It's a sham - you think friendships last, but they don't. We knew we would end up at the same school, have similar jobs, hang out all the time. But a lot of that was shattered back in seventh grade. Shattered may not be the right word, as I was spiteful about the loss of a friend myself, and made my own efforts to distance myself.

NEU. Journalism. That's me. And despite our seemingly best attempts to not let this happen, this is where you are, too. You're here, at Northeastern. A Communications major. You live less than a football field away from me - likely even closer than our childhood homes were from each other. You're on the Fenway, I'm on Hemenway.

Twice, I've seen you on campus. It's a big campus, easy to lose people. The first time I was on my way to class, and I was convinced I recognized the face of the person thirty yards ahead of me, and I was right.

But the other time is what I'm thinking about. We were standing on Huntington, waiting for a line of traffic to go by. I recognized you instantly, and there's no doubt in my mind that you knew who I was as well. But neither of us spoke. There was no head nod, no acknowledgement of each other's existence. When the cars passed, we went our separate ways, I to my Improv practice, and you to God-knows-where.

What happened indeed. From the best of friends to absolutely no acknowledgement at all. I will never understand how this can occur.

The next time I see you on the street, or in a building somewhere, I'm going to say, "Hey." Maybe you'll respond, maybe you won't. In a campus of twelve thousand people, it's easy to go long periods of time without seeing the same person twice. I hope you'll respond. Even a simple, "Hey", would do.

I know you won't read this, Matt. Maybe some acquaintance, or friend, that we have in common will link you to it.

Cause you're well aware that I'm much more coherent and organized on paper than I am in person.

her beauty in the moonlight overthrew you.

I know you don't read this.

There are actually two people to whom this simple thought is addressed, but for very different reasons.

The first person could read this if she so chose, but I'm pretty sure she doesn't. I want her to. Most people who know me are well aware of the fact that my thoughts are much more organized, coherent, and complete when written, rather than spoken. I guess this makes it somewhat ironic, then, that I feel I'm doing well in my auditions for the Improv group. Not phenomenal, but well.

If you read this, you know who you are.

I'm not even going to be symbolic about it anymore. I want to go out with you. I've liked you, from a "distance" for a decent amount of time now, but I'm naive, new. I don't do the whole 'asking out' thing very well. You told me last time that you had work to do after Mass, and I, being Mr. Interpreter that I am, can't tell for the life of me if you were being literal, that day, or whether you meant you weren't interested.

Consider me as a fourth-grader; everything relating to this topic needs to be broken down into its simplest elements. I can rattle off jargon or slang with the rest of them, and I can define pretty well, but that doesn't mean I understand. Make me understand. You missed Mass last weekend, but Fr. Unni talked about how the Gospel's message was, "Make my faith greater." I hate quoting the Bible for random purposes, and this seems like the most trivial purpose devised, but it's what came to mind.

I don't even know what it was that made me think to write this. You walked into the room briefly and the mind-spark lit up. You know, the whole lightbulb thing. But here I am, sitting in front of my computer while people down the hall are cleaning up various messes, writing about someone who likely has no idea I'm writing about them. It's kind of sad, really.

So, please, if you do read this, come down, shout in my ear, and smack me in the head, because that's the only way I've ever gotten a message.

you saw her bathing on the roof...

I don't understand. Somebody, please help me understand this.

The common room in my suite is packed full of drunk people right now. There were about eight before, now it's down to about six. This includes my direct roommate, who's sitting on the couch, sedentary, listening to an iPod and singing along (horridly, I might add) to whatever happens to be playing. This is by no means the first instance of drunken groups in the room.

I discovered what could possibly be an interesting experiment, at least from a sociological point-of-view. How many drinks can my roommate have before he 'blacks out'? How many times does he 'black out' before he decides not to cross that threshold anymore? Does he ever make this decision? How many nights pass before the RA catches them in the act, since not all of the drinking takes place outside of this suite.

I don't understand the drinking. As I wrote in my newspaper column a few weeks back, this is the perfect way, it seems, to screw up what needs to be done. To stay in the Honors Program at Northeastern, students must maintain a 3.4 grade point average. But when everyone, it seems, gets drunk 3, sometimes 4 nights a week, how in the world are they going to keep their grades at such a high level? By my count, there are three people on the floor who will not drink. Myself, a friend of mine with similar philosophies regarding drinking, and the RA himself. Out of 17 residents, 3 don't drink. I'm not going to run the percentages on that - I don't want to be depressed.

And this is in the Honors Dorm. I had the option of choosing the Wellness Floor, as my friends who attend Emerson College have, but I chose the Honors Dorm because it is suite-style, and I couldn't guarantee that the Wellness Floor would be.

Besides, one would think that the Honors Dorm would have a good deal of people who are wellness-oriented. Evidently not.

What is the appeal of drinking? That it helps you forget your problems, is the common response. But tell me, what problems do you have? You're a college student. You're not paying the bills. You can do pretty much whatever you want in your free time. And yet you choose a self-destructive behavior. The good times you have now, out in various clubs and such, will be negated and then some when you need a liver transplant in fifty years after you become stricken with cirrhosis.

That's a story I should write for a newspaper. The reasons college freshmen drink, from the point-of-view of a non-drinker.

I've just put on my headphones. Normally, I wouldn't bother. I could just turn up the volume on the computer's built-in speakers, but the noise level, despite my closed door, is too great to make out lyrics in my singer/songwriter ballads.

Just as they have a threshold for how much alcohol gets them drunk, I have a threshold of my own. My own alcohol-tolerance threshold, if you will. How much will I let them drink before it crosses my threshold? At what point do they place the proverbial straw that breaks the camel's back?

This is not the first time they've come back in this state and had many guests. And it won't be the last. But how far distant is that penultimate party?