The worn-out, deteriorated jersey sat on my bedroom chair from April into June. The reason: a good luck omen for the Celtics to rub before every playoff game in hopes of triggering some charm that will carry them to the title, just another maniacal habit from a die-hard fanatic. Instead of an omen, the jersey ended up being a message and a distinct reminder of where I am and where I was.
It all began with Pedro Martinez. When I first began to indulge myself in the Boston sports scene at the turn of the century, and with baseball being my first love seemingly out of the womb, the Red Sox became just as important as family and friends even at a young age. Opening my first baseball card pack and feeling the ultimate when Pedro
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