World Series

Nine years ago this week, the Red Sox were about to play game 1 of the World Series. A man named Loverpants was sizzling frozen pierogies in his kitchen, wearing pajama pants.

Maybe he was all caught up in the Red Sox excitement.

Or maybe it was just too much to wait until a ring on order had arrived.

When a woman named Kendra entered the kitchen that Loverpants was renting, Loverpants turned abruptly to Kendra and just said some brief, heartfelt things that only history can recall, and punctuated those nice thoughts with, And I want to marry you.

Good thing since Kendra wanted to marry Loverpants.

So they agreed, with a string tied around a finger as the only outward symbol of this contractual agreement.

There was no well-choreographed surprise or sparkle of jewels like so many other autumnal proposals. Just an affirmation and one echoed.


I was thinking tonight what a lovely season fall is in which to get engaged or married. I think about our own engagement and how it truly was like a harvest of all the goodness we had planted and even the pain that we had plucked up until that time. Just as the World Series is a harvest season, reaping the rewards of long months of teambuilding and perfecting plays.

So much has passed between us, Mr. Loverpants and me: rings and money, secrets and trust, laughter and tears. I feel so immensely grateful for his love and the kindness of his soul.

And yet so little has changed. He still stands in his pajama pants and turns abruptly while sizzling something pulled from our freezer, telling me something--from the sublime to the ridiculous. We are still renting our kitchen. We are still affirming one another's hopes for the future.

Our Red Sox are back in the World Series.

The only things that have changed are the geography. And a couple of precious souls, pajama clad and yelling loudly over us.