There was a time when I was a big Red Sox fan. I was living in Boston with the rest of the world along Comm. Ave., went to sports bars to watch games on a regular basis, and attended two or three games each season. I could walk into Star Market and pick up a conversation with the bagger about last night’s win. On game days, the T was filled with red and white jerseys. Kenmore Square was one huge party. Even as a child growing up in the suburbs, the team was a part of life. Heck, I even had my foot nearly run over by ‘Oil Can’ Boyd one year trying to get his autograph outside Fenway Park. It’s nearly impossible not to love the Red Sox.
Then, about four years ago, I got a job working with a local television station and my love for the Red Sox was promptly ejected, so to speak. You see, the more the Red Sox won, the more we all had to work. The playoffs were the worst and I wasn’t the only one secretly hoping for a loss-the anticipation of doom permeated the newsroom, even though most of us cheered each time Ortiz blasted one onto Lansdowne Street. But getting home at 3am only to get up three hours later and do it all over again for weeks at a time wasn’t exactly my idea of being a Red Sox fan. Don’t even get me started on “The Papelbon” dance craze. It was tough, too, not cheering at home, especially when my wife, donning her Pedroia jersey, would yell at me to stop being such a poor sport and root for the hometeam, already.
Fortunately, times have changed. I can go back to being a Red Sox fan this season. I suspect my wife will be happy about this and I can only hope that Red Sox nation won’t publiclly flog me for my past transgressions. Consider this my public apology. Maybe now, my boss will understand if I come in a little late once in a while. Think he’ll let me take the entire month of October off?