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The Hunt for RED October |
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The Hunt for RED October |
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Given an option, there are certain choices sane
adults would never make. Vacationing in Iraq, wearing asbestos underwear
and becoming a fan of the Boston Red Sox are three that immediately leap
to mind.
The Red Sox, who sometimes are kind enough to spare their fans the late-season heartbreak by collapsing in July, have not won a World Series since 1918. Only the Chicago Cubs can match Boston’s record of ineptitude. However, unlike Sox diehards, Cubs fans escape the protracted anguish each season because their team is mathematically eliminated from the pennant race by the end of spring training. That isn't the case for the Red Sox. They are perennial contenders who constantly devise new and interesting ways to lose. Boston has been to the World Series three times since the Summer of Love, only to lose the seventh and deciding game each time. In 1986, the Sox surprised the heavily favored New York Mets by stealing the first two games in Shea Stadium. Even a pessimist as resilient as a Red Sox fan figured started to believe our time had finally come. What followed that amazing feat might not be the biggest choke in sports history, but I have no doubt that if God had to wrap His arms around the equator to perform the Heimlich Maneuver on our planet, Bill Buckner would not see his family again without hitching a ride on the Space Shuttle. Unfortunately, Boston's stupefying vanishing act is not exclusive to rare World Series appearances. In 1978 the Sox blew a 14-game lead and lost a one-game playoff to the despised rival New York Yankees, when a sidekick of Snow White’s named Bucky -- Sleepy and Doc were still playing double-A -- managed to hit the most impressive pop-up since Harry Reems' acting debut. While organizations such as the Tampa Bay Devil Rays never mislead their devotees by fielding talented teams, the Sox treat fans as if they are strip club patrons. They take our cash, tease us into a lather and then boot us out the door knowing we will come sprinting back to do it again. The team's mascot should be the Marquis de Sade. No matter how horrid the previous season's collapse, each spring the resilient Sox faithful shake off their collective depression and surge back to Fenway Park like lemmings who sniffing salty air. Whether it is blind devotion or the same morbid fascination some have with grizzly car wrecks, the wide-eyed Fenway Faithful return each spring convinced this year will be different. Who can blame them?
Universally regarded as America's best ballpark, Fenway offers a great view unobstructed by championship banners and seats so close to the field you could hear the squish of Sammy Sosa's bat. The venerable stadium, and its fabled left
field wall affectionately referred to as the Green Monster, has outlived
just about everything but "The Curse." Though it stretches reality farther than Ted Kennedy and Rush Limbaugh battling for a piece of salt-water taffy, Sox fans are serious about "The Curse" and for good reason. They are privy to a devastating secret shared only by a few Indian mystics and a schizophrenic wino who calls Boylston Street home: Boston winning a World Series is the final sign of The Apocalypse. Well, at the very least, I am sure it would trigger a celebration of Biblical proportions! |
For a sports fan such as me who had the great
misfortune of growing up in Massachusetts, becoming a Sox fan was less
birthright than birth defect. After suffering through decades of dashed
hopes, I now find myself relieved when the Red Sox fail to make it to
the postseason. I would prefer wearing asbestos underwear while
vacationing in Iraq is preferable to experiencing yet another October
breakdown.