I miss Boston today. I miss my parents’ house in Newton, just down the street from Heartbreak Hill. I miss the smell of hot dogs and the undulating buzz of the crowd and the Sox on the radio and the anticipation as the wheelchair racers and women and men passed by, faces set with that concrete determination only distance runners can summon, my dad pointing out—and he did this more than once—how cool it was that we were just a few feet from world-class athletes, me nodding but not really being able to get into it because this didn’t seem like quite the same thing as running into Paul Pierce at a restaurant.
It’s definitely one of those days that gives rise to a strong sense of place. Even now that I’m older and more cynical can spout off semi-eloquently about the dangers of tribalism and pointless fracturing, it’s hard not to look homeward on a day like today, to say “I’m from Boston” and feel the weight behind those words.