Growing up, I dreamed of standing on the field at Fenway surrounded by 38,000 screaming fans celebrating the Red Sox winning the World Series. I always dreamed of doing that as a player, but then had to come to terms with the fact that I couldn’t hit a beach ball with a tennis racquet in the batter’s box.

So I had to get creative.

I started writing about the game I love, thinking that my audience would always be the trio of my parents and aunt who spends way too much time on my Facebook wall. Before I knew it, my hobby was a full-time career, and I was a credentialed media member for the American League Championship Series and World Series at Fenway.

I can’t think of a more intimidating moment than walking into the park on the first day of the ALCS. Three days earlier, I was sitting on my couch watching Sox games. Now, I’m sitting in the dugout with guys I’ve looked up to since I was little, guys who have written the stories of some of the best moments of my life.

Before Game 2, I was sitting in the dugout instagramming my fifteenth picture of the evening when I felt the bench sink down on one side. It was David Ortiz, sitting two feet away from me. My favorite player of ten years, with his head down while he was saying a pregame prayer, not knowing that he was a couple hours away from one of the signature moments of his career.

“Good luck tonight, Papi.”

“Thanks brother, have a good one.”

And I did have a good one, because Ortiz launched a grand slam into the bullpen to turn the series around and a random jumping cop into an instant celebrity.

I knew it then. As I stood about ten rows up from the field on the first base side, I knew that this team, this city, would win it all. We had to, right? Because we’re #BostonStrong, and this is our bleeping city.

You know what happened after that. The Sox won the ALCS, and were matched up with the Cardinals in the World Series. After five hard-fought games, Boston’s pack of bearded animals came back to Boston with a chance to win their first World Series at Fenway in ninety-five years.

The party started in about the fourth inning of Game Six, with 38,000 going crazy with every Sox hit, every Sox run. The busloads of non-celebrating-in-the-bullpen cops were coming from all angles around Kenmore Square, and cars were getting ready to be flipped in the post-game celebration.

One last time for the season, Sox fans screamed their lungs out to the lyrics of “Sweet Caroline”, knowing that they were minutes away from witnessing history.

“Sweet Caroline, bom bom bom. Good times never seemed so good. So good, so good, so good.”

And then they did it. A supposedly-subpar team shocked the world and re-ignited a city lost in the aftermath of a tragic bombing. Average players became rock stars in the greatest city in the world, and heroes to a group that stretches far-past sports fans.

Making my way through clouds of firework smoke on the field after the game, I realized that I had gotten to have a front-row seat for one of the greatest stories in Boston sports history. My dream of being on the field had come true, along with the dreams of millions of Bostonians who needed a reason to cheer again.

So good, so good, so good.