I'm a Red Sox fan. Always have been, always will be.
Where I come from, it's sacrilege to root for the BoSox, and I've taken nothing but flack (defined as name-calling, elbow-throwing, and good-natured drunken heckling in the Yankee Stadium bleachers) for it. I've suffered the tumultuous seasons of heartbreak associated with being a Red Sox fan in quiet anguish for many years.
So when it came time to pick a college, I picked one in New England, and one far from the Bronx. But I have found that almost everyone here likes the Yankees, too.
And why not? It's safe to root for the Yankees. The Yankees are winners, the Yankees are cool.
After all, I can tell you how this baseball season will end. The Yankees will win an obscene amount of games and beat the Braves in the World Series. They deserve to. They are an incredible bunch of talented, classy ballplayers who managed to stick together in an era of free agency. They even managed to improve a roster that won 114 games last year.
But doesn't that get boring after a few years? How many times can you see Mariano Rivera jump up and down before a mob scene ensues on the mound as the Yanks win another World Series to add to their storied history? Where's the drama, the excitement?
One could make the argument that the Red Sox are similarly predictable, only without the success of the Yankees. And it's true, to some extent. For the past ten summers, I'd wake up every morning, read the sports and think, "Wow, this could be the year for the Red Sox."
Invariably, when mid-August comes around, the Sox start their slide and end the year in third place. But I'd rather take the heartbreaks and the near misses than win the way the Yankees do.
Major League Baseball is essentially grown-men playing a kid's game in double-knit pajamas. That's part of what makes it great, but it's also part of what gives it, like all professional sports, an element of ridiculousness. Baseball players live the dream of all Americans: they get to play a child's game, they get to scratch and spit and eat sunflower seeds at the workplace and wear flip-up sunglasses.
Because they get to do all the things we cannot, we pay them enormous salaries. The Yankees are able to do this better than any other team in the league, mostly because when God was handing out brains, George Steinbrenner got money instead.
Baseball, at its best, is a beautiful sport, one that approaches Art. At its worst, baseball is just another branch of the money-grubbing entertainment industry, fueled by ego and greed. The Yankees represent the greed.
While there is nothing wrong with trying to put together the best possible team year after year, the Yankee organization does this in such a low-class manner.
The Red Sox, on the other hand, represent the poetic side of baseball. Just as life isn't always fair, watching the Red Sox isn't always fair. The history of the Red Sox is an epic tragedy with a cast of colorful characters, Shakespearean heroes who get so close to the goal before showing their tragic flaw.
If life is a series of ups and downs, at times running hot and cold, then a season in the sun with the Red Sox is truly life. Ted Williams could bat .406 and still be overshadowed by Joe DiMaggio, a hated Yankee. Bill Buckner could bat over .300 for years as a rock-solid defensive first basement, but destiny tapped him on the shoulder that night in '86 when the ball eluded him and the Red Sox' World Championship hopes slipped between their legs.
The Yankees and the Red Sox, forever bitter rivals, are linked together like the Yin and the Yang. The Yankees represent greed and oppressive tyranny, a machine-like precision fueled by the endless wallet of King George.
The Red Sox represent life's trials and tribulations. Every year since 1918 they take up their cross and try to exhume the ghosts of past near-misses, reaching for the ultimate goal which is always a game or two out of their reach.
Perhaps, in my lifetime, I will see David slay Goliath and the Red Sox break the curse of the Bambino. Until that day, I'll have to treasure all the near misses and always wonder "What if..." and hopefully think, "Wait 'til next year." I'll probably also have to take my Sox hat off and keep quiet every time I sit in the Stadium bleachers unless I want a shower of six dollar cheap beer.
