Groundhog Day in October

In a world that seems rife with let-downs, there are some who do it more spectacularly than others. To wit, we have Britney Spears and her addictive persuasions to alcohol and narcotics, Michael Jackson, once revered as the greatest musician in the world, is now looked upon as the greatest freakazoid of all time. Saudi Arabia is our ally/enemy....enemy/ally....ally/enemy...I've lost track of that one, to be honest. It changes as often as I change socks...or SOX...as it were.

Last night, the Red Sox suffered a 5th inning let-down (or should I say "Meltdown" ?) and gave up 7 runs. This was the 2nd time in 3 games the Sox gave up 7 runs in an inning to the Indians, the first time coming in Game 2 in the 13th inning. They are now on the brink of either elimination or one more of those special comebacks like they did in 2004. My wife - a newly formed convert who has watched nearly every game this year and talks baseball with authority now - slammed her hands on the bed last night and asked me how the hell I can continue to put up with this year after year.

I'm 50 as of the other day, and for 49 of those 50 years, the Red Sox have reached into a barrel full of fish and come up empty handed. Many of those times in excruciating fashion. I could tell you stories of ghosts past and present...ghosts with names like Pesky, Aparicio, Bucky F. Dent, Bob Stanley, Bill Buckner and Aaron F. Boone... ...but I won't. Instead, I'd rather answer my wife's question:

How could I continue to watch all these years through the pain? The answer to that is simple.

From my earliest recollection, I've been in love with the Red Sox. I love their uniforms, which have gone virtually unchanged for a century. I love their ballpark, Fenway. All that majestic green everywhere; seats that are all different sizes and face the wrong way; large beams blocking your view; the guys inside the green monster operating the manual scoreboard dodging rats the size of newborn Shetland Pony's; the atmosphere of electricity even if it's snowing and 28 degrees at the end of the season and they are out of contention. The place is full every night, and their boys are going at it.

With me, it's kind of like the way a fish needs water. In March, Spring Training comes around with fresh faces and renewed hopes. April through October is the season, and I find myself watching two teams during those six months...the Sox and the Yankees...those bothersome dorks who more times than not have ruined a perfectly good September and October for me. That's the way it is...my diversion...my psychotherapy. Come home to the family, watch a little baseball, talk a little baseball. It keeps me sane and drives me insane all at the same time, and I wouldn't have it any other way.

Perhaps they'll come back and win all three games to get to the World Series, perhaps not. In any event, much like a family member who has strayed from the path, I will scold them for doing the wrong things, then take them back with a hug and gently tell them to try not to do that again next year.

Besides, I do love those uniforms, after all.