Redsoxchickie: Just This Side of Stalking

Why I Am A Red Sox Fan

Why do I love the Red Sox? I have no freakin’ idea! I do, however believe that the answer lies somewhere between addiction and masochism. Year in and year out I torture myself into believing that this year’s their year, “We’re going all the way!” And each season I sit on my couch for two weeks in October in a state of grief. I go through all the stages...

Why do I love the Red Sox? I have no freakin’ idea! I do, however believe that the answer lies somewhere between addiction and masochism. Year in and year out I torture myself into believing that this year’s their year, “We’re going all the way!” And each season I sit on my couch for two weeks in October in a state of grief. I go through all the stages: Denial – No, it can’t be true it was all just a bad dream, we didn’t REALLY get swept by the Yankees for the Pennant, Bargaining – Please God, if you let us have a world championship this year, I’ll give up chocolate, coffee and cigarettes, Anger – How could they do this to me! After all I’ve done for them!, and finally, Acceptance – When does Spring Training start? This is the usually the point I cry myself to sleep. But alas the cycle starts all over once the first of the players’ reports to spring training. And so in order to untangle the madness of my obsession, I have decided to take an in-depth look at what brings me to irritate my ulcer every summer.

First comes the attraction. I am a female therefore a sport where men run around in tight uniforms is a natural drawing aspect to the game. After all, football and hockey players wear so much equipment, Jesus could be playing and no one would be able to tell unless he had an endorsement deal hocking Nikes. And basketball players, while showing the most skin, are freakishly disproportionate. I don’t consider the fact that they could literally step over me while I’m standing to be a selling point. So that leaves me my polyester clad boys of summer. Every time one gets up to the plate you get to see his face in a nice close-up, and in most cases they have all their teeth and very few have broken noses. And in those uniforms you get to see how muscular they are too. A special bonus is if you’re lucky enough to catch the shot of the man on second bending over as he takes a lead. I’m sorry if all this sounds crass but in my defense all I have to say is ‘gratuitous boob shots of cheerleaders on the sidelines of football games’. Anyway, have you seen the Sports Illustrated cover of Nomar! Hello? If you weren’t drooling over that, you need to get your pulse checked.

The attraction isn’t completely physical though. Good looks will only last so long though. In order to keep you interested there has to be more. I tend to have an emotional attachment to my players. When you are investing 3+ hours a night over the course of six months to watching these guys play, you can’t help to become emotionally involved. You sit there and watch their highs and lows, the injuries and the comebacks and you end up feeling like they are a part of your family. Take when Veritek broke his elbow going for a foul ball. I was besides myself the next day when I found out he would be out for 8-12 weeks, if fact, I damn near cried. Then again, I cried at the end of the movie “Rudy” too. However, should these feelings lead to the statement “I’m your biggest fan” while holding a sledgehammer, it would be best if you saw a professional about said feelings. Remember, nothing says obsessive love like a permanent restraining order, but I digress. So each year I have my favorite players and the ones I’d be first in line to say “Adios” to at Logan. If one of my favorites gets demoted or traded, I feel betrayed, like I lost a friend, but then I get a reality check before the “I’m your biggest fan” scenario comes into play. Moderation is the key.

I have always had a soft spot for the underdog in any contest. And let’s face it, if there were a mother of all underdog teams, the Red Sox would have it emblazoned across their chests in neon flashing lights. Since we haven’t won a World Series since the invention of television, we are considered and always will be considered the underdogs. We could literally have a .900 percent winning average, have swept every team in the playoffs and go to the World Series playing the least expected team from the National League, and the broadcasters would still be saying “The Red Sox are the obvious underdogs in this contest, lets just pray they can hang in there”. It would be easy to root for the team that always wins, not to mention less stressful, but life isn’t easy, and neither are the Red Sox wins.

The unpredictability of the game is another factor. You have Pedro on the mound, the Sox are leading 1-0 in the bottom of the ninth, and the other team has a man on second. Rationally you know that the chances Pedro is going to give up a home run are along the lines of Rodger Clemens losing 30 pounds, but I still sit there gnawing on my nails, curled up in the fetal position, saying Hail Marys until the last out is made. Why? Because as every Red Sox fan knows, no Red Sox lead is a safe one. One crack of the bat and a four run lead can be rendered obsolete. These are the times when my ulcer flares its ugly head, and trust me the cigarettes and coffee through nine innings were not contributing factors at all. Take the 18-“you bastards have kept me awake until almost 1 in the morning so you better damn well win this” inning game. I sat there and cried every time another inning went by for 3 extra hours, but I couldn’t give up because I knew with one swing the game could be over and I would never be able to forgive myself if I had missed it. And in the bottom of the 18th, a single home run ended the game, blissfully, in our favor. That’s the kind of play that keeps me glued to the TV, listening to Jerry Remi do the “Aflak Quack” every night.

It’s an inherited responsibility. I’ve been born and bred a Red Sox fan and know no other team to root for. It’s a simple rule, if you live in or around the Boston area you are a Red Sox fan, otherwise you face certain ridicule at sports bars. Tell someone in Boston at a bar that you’re, say, a Tampa Bay fan; you will almost certainly be laughed out of the building. Either that or people will buy you drinks and refer to you as the “poor lost soul”. You know you live in a baseball-obsessed town when the Priest in his Sunday sermon asks you to pray for the Red Sox to have a good playoff series. I shudder at the thought of moving to another state, because I know I would have to get a satellite dish in order to get the games on television and I’d have to sell my car in order to afford it. Hell, I plan my weekends around their game schedule. I never know when they may need my support.

The team is a living historical timeline. I’m sure people alive today from Boston that can remember 1918 know where they were. People always remember where they were when Fiske hit the home run. I know exactly where I was and what I was doing that infamous night in 1986. I also remember what I did after that game. I cried. I cried for a very long time. I remember where I was the night Pedro was on the mound and the Red Sox and Tampa Bay had bench-clearing brawls. And in the future I’m sure there will be more moments that will be significant milestones in my life and bring back such vivid emotions of that time that its like reliving them all over again. I can always look back and say, “That was the year…”

I’m bitter and I like it. Let’s face it. No sane person should be a Red Sox Fan. Consider the odds of them winning the World Series; it’s the equivalent of hitting on 20 and getting the ace in blackjack, you wouldn’t bet your mother’s life that it’s going to happen. Over eighty years of lost opportunities tends leaves fans just a little bit sore and extremely bitter. Why do you think people flip each other the bird on Storrow? It’s not the traffic, its years of pent up frustration. In the event that this town was to ever win the Series, it would lie somewhere between the American Revolution and the Boston Tea Party in history for Boston. People would be naming their kids after the players, the Charles would be lined with people shouting “Hallelujah, Sweet Lord!” and Cardinal Law would canonize the entire team. Just the thought of this scenario is worth remaining bitter just a little while longer.

And so you see, for all the torture and pain comes small moments of joy and pride and hopefully, someday in the not so distant future, I’ll be able to watch my boys win the World Championship as reward for all my years of suffering. And just the hint of this possibility is why I will always be a Red Sox fan. So let me be with my obsession, because like an addict with a crack pipe, “I just need one more hit, dammit!”