At 10:40 tonight I left my abode for the same reason anyone would at that hour .... for a run.
Chill. Damp. Foggy. Streets beyond bare. I jogged the length of East 3rd to Farragut Road, nearly a mile, without seeing a car or pedestrian. Turned onto Columbia Road at the water ... and still, the only sound was the mild roar of jet engine, approaching touchdown at Logan.
That much silence gives much room for noticing that, quite sincerely, every ground-level home I passed with a TV in the window had a TV showing the waning minutes of the Celtics/Lakers match.
A few minutes later, at the intersection with L Street, without warning, a car horn blared. Then again. And again. Someone playing their car horn like it was a bugle blowing Reveille.
As if on cue, first one door on Columbia Road, then another, and then another opened, letting out the winning team's fans, headed to their own cars, on their ways home.
As for me? Rounded the projects and went back up Dorchester. Landed at Tom English's Cottage. The time was 11:25. In the already emptied bar, bathed in sweat, I enjoyed a Bud Light way more than one should, watching the highlights.
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