...well, that's not exactly right.
This story takes us back 18 years. To the 28th of October. Back to 1986.
You see, on that day, somewhere in one of the cozy towns outlying the city of Boston, a little blond boy turned 12 years old. He thought it was a Pretty Big Deal. But no one else cared about this little boy's birthday that particular year.
For just a few days beforehand, a certain baseball team lost a Very Important Game. A game that was permanently etched into his mind, and into the psyche of everyone around. That game taught him about hubris and it taught him about humility. That game taught him about bad hops and bad breaks at the worst possible time.
And that game taught this little boy that, while he would later proudly call New York City his home and the only city he truly loves, he would never, ever, like their bloody baseball teams.
All that aside, I am turning 30 years old on the same night that the Red Sox could potentially win the World Series for the first time in 86 years. Or they could potentially lose the World Series. Again. That very night.
Either way, I wouldn't want to spend it anywhere else than with all of you. In New York City.
So please join me at the only bar that can hold all of you in one room (and will still let us back in there):
Ace Bar
5th St, between Avenue A and B
Thursday, October 28th, 2004
(See, this party is a great excuse for those who would secretly like to sneak a peak at the ballgame, but don't admit to liking baseball. Or the ballgame is a great excuse to come to the party, but secretly don't like me.)
And either way, I can pretty much guarantee that at least one of these things is never going to happen again in our lifetimes.
Hope to see you next Thursday.
Update: There will be no baseball tonight. Come celebrate.