I’ve recently become enthralled in the World Series hype and unable to function without my daily dose of Red Sox predictions and analysis. I’ve even forced my pug Iris to wear her Schilling rally shirt and I’ve been interchanging my “Ortiz” shirt with my “Cowboy Up!” shirt since the Series began on Wednesday.

This October has brought back so many fond memories of my time in Boston just 5 years ago: living 2 blocks from Fenway Park, Iris and I would walk along Yawkey Way before gametime to soak in the Fenway energy.

I remember the sadness in defeat: the Aaron Boone homerun of extra-inning Game 7 in 2003.

I remember “Reverse the Curse”: the all-too-real familiarity that a Red Sox game ain’t over til the last out is made.

I remember the glory of victory: the madness that ensued outside my apartment building after we won the World Series in 2004.

Now, despite being an ocean and continent away from the action that used to be at my fingertips, I’m feeling just a tinge of nostalgia. I certainly don’t miss Boston, but boy do I miss the Red Sox… and the fans… and the plain old love of a real American game.

Granted, the games are broadcast live and therefore during the day here, but it’s an awfully lonely Red Sox Nation on the other side of the country in Honolulu.

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