I Hate (read: Love) Baseball

There was a point during the 2004 ALCS at which I gave up all hope. I forgot the wise words of Yogi Berra and decided that the Red Sox season was, in fact, over before it was over. There was only one more loss in the next four games against the Yankees between my beloved team and another frustrated offseason. I sat in the Feve that night in Oberlin (oh, Feve, how I miss you), drank scotch whiskey and wondered aloud where I was going to get enough money for all the alcohol that I would need to get through yet another year of my hopes and dreams being crushed by the Damn Yankees.

The next day, the Sox won. Then the next, and after two more wins, they were in the World Series. It was a wonderful time, but I will always regret that one moment at which I had officially and completely given up on my team. Just as Saint Peter had denied his friendship with Jesus, I threw off all affiliation with a team that I thought was done for. Then the cock crowed, the prophecy was fulfilled, after 86 years without a ring the woes of the '86 team were put to rest, 1918+24(Manny Ramirez)+34(David Ortiz)+33(Jason Varitek)-5(no more Nomar Garciaparra)=2004, and on a night when the moon was red, the Red Sox were World Champions. It was then that I realized the error of my ways.

So again I am faced with a choice. The Sox have dropped 2 straight in abysmal fashion to their White counterparts, and are one loss in the next three games away from elimination. And that's before even getting the honor of being beaten silly by the Yankees. I could give up now, go to a bar (sadly, not the Feve), and drink to next season. But I won't. These damn guys keep me holding on to the bitter end. They've done it before, they could come back. Two games at Fenway, then in game five anything could happen. So go on, keep prolonging the agony, boys, because that's baseball. And I love it (read: hate it).