Red Sox Confidential
My favorite memory, though, was the warm September night when the Sox clinched the wild card on the last home game of the 2003 season. After the final out was made and the on-field celebration had begun, a security guard spotted my ID and motioned for me to step onto the field. The next thing I knew I was high-fiving players and jumping up and down with joy along with everyone else. I even danced a jig on the pitcher’s mound with my former Globe colleague Meg Vaillancourt, who had become head of the Red Sox Foundation. Running into the clubhouse for some champagne, I had my nice blue suit ruined when outfielder Gabe Kapler doused me with foamy spray from his bottle of bubbly. Returning to the field, I walked slowly down the first-base side, where hundreds of fans were holding empty beer cups in their outstretched hands. I happily poured them champagne from my bottle. At one point, I happened to turn to look at the Jumbotron, and there I saw myself quenching the thirst of that happy throng. The next day my e-mail inbox was filled with messages from people I hadn’t seen or heard from in years. They’d been watching the game and couldn’t understand what the hell this small-town kid from Maine was doing celebrating on their TV screen.