After some personal upheaval I’m back and yet I can’t post
about horses…not yet. As those of you
that follow this space know, I am very proud to be a Minnesotan by choice (well
– I was transferred here, but let’s not get nitpicky). I love my adopted home state very much. I’ve grown to love the people, the
traditions, and the racing – not the weather so much – but I do love it here
and I cannot ever imagine really leaving…except maybe in winters and come back
every summer. You also know, though,
that I have never been able to completely shake my New England roots. I live and die with the Red Sox and Patriots
mostly, but also avidly follow the Bruins and Celtics and just about anything
Boston HAS to be good in my book. That’s
what happens when you grow up about 12 miles north of the greatest city in the
world.
That more were not killed in the Boston Marathon attack was
a miracle. That three were killed was
horrific (four in all). All four young
people (all four victims were under 30 years old) had so much life ahead of
them and 8-year old Martin Richard had barely even gotten started. With scores
wounded and dozens of amputees the number of directly affected lives will
ripple into the hundreds, if not thousands.
Those of us unaffected personally but affected nonetheless may number in
the millions.
Watching these terrible events unfold anywhere in the world
is difficult. Watching it unfold in your
hometown, a place that you’ve loved longer than you can even remember is
excruciatingly painful. I rode those
subway lines with my dad to Sox games when I was 5 or 6. I remember the Hancock Tower being completed
in time for the Bicentennial. Fenway
Park, Copley Square, the spot on the road you would walk by and tell tourists,
“This is where the Marathon finishes” were sacred places but sacred because of
the history and tradition, not sacred as the Marathon finish will forever be
now: christened by the blood of innocents and cleansed by the efforts of heroes.
The tears that I shed that week were different than all the
others. These are for MY home. MY people.
MY city. MY city will be the one
that’ll never be the same now. It’s different.
My anger is greater; my grief deeper. It’s different when it’s your own. But there are some things I know about
Bostonians: we’re stubborn, aggressive and defiant. Shit, we picked a fight with a superpower when
we were just a bunch of smugglers and farmers for crying out loud and we all
know what came out of that! We’ll beat
this. We’ll beat THEM – these two punks
and anyone else that dares takes us on.
The Marathon may never be the same and Patriots’ Day will have added significance
but they will go on. Boston will pull
itself back up and go on. And it will be
better than ever – as if that were even possible!
We are Boston. We are
Strong.
Boston Strong.
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