Davis was full of screaming happy people and happy honking cars, and the Jeep's horn joined the din. We stopped at a red light; fans ran past on the sidewalk and empty lanes, twirling their shirts, shaking maracas with favorite players pasted on, and keeping the kids up way too late. Glanced past at Mike's; a certain Yankees jersey was nowhere to be seen. We started honking at bars; the Joshua Tree had a photographer outside, taking pictures of cars going by. The Burren held us up while some taxis left, and as we passed Sligo, the entire assemblage outside raised up and gave out one of the few high-pitched WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOs I told myself I could stomach.
A mile and a quarter later, I arrived home. I got upstairs and stepped out on the deck. There, the air was still and the busy thrum of the city rumbled on below. If you listened carefully in the direction of Davis, you could hear a sustained celebration. Two helicopters hovered anxiously over the Fenway. A car went by, honking its horn, sending up staccato responses as it passed on down the street towards the church.
All is well with the world.