It was only right that I should show up to the Red Sox parade. Dashing off an article for this week’s paper on some not very interesting local politics, I dumped the car at Lincoln Station and took a commuter train packed to the gunnels with kids and young adults skipping school or work. Not for the last time that day did I feel old. 
Police were out in force, some in riot gear, others regulation issue sun glasses. Others pacified dogs, eager to get in on the action. The crowd boisterous and vocal lobbed whatever they could find and officers would tolerate back and forth. If you needed toilet paper at one of the port potties then too bad. That was among the first missiles to decorate the roadway.
But it was a fun day, the parade passed quickly, but not quietly, and an iron grip descended on the crowd as it wrapped up. North Station was a zoo as massed ranks of weary travelers tried to unravel the station announcements and weave between dazed and tired fellow members of the Nation to reach the right platform.
It was a good day to claim allegiance to the home town team.
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