Dear Boston Red Sox,

Dear Boston Red Sox,

I have been a fan of yours for most of my life. I don’t remember exactly how or when I became a fan, but I know it was sometime in my early childhood. I don’t really know why I became a fan, especially since my parents are Yankees fans…I guess it was my own form of childhood rebellion. I think my parents were lucky. Anyway, I do know this much… I am a Red Sox fan. When I was in the third grade there was this annoying fourth-grader who insisted that the Mets would beat the Sox in the 1986 World Series. I took great offense to this statement and proceeded to start an argument with her which developed into a shoving match which developed to playground chants of “Red-Sox-Stink! Me-ets-Stink!” which developed into us all having to stand against the wall for the remainder of recess. Ok, so the girl was right, but to this day if you listen closely you can still hear the chants of “Me-ets Stink” resonating faintly over the playing fields at E. Green Elementary School.

So the years have gone by and I have remained a fan. Like many other young fans I learned to live with the requisite pain and heartache that comes with rooting for the Sox. Then I grew up and married a man who may quite possibly be an even bigger fan than I am. Together we live as part of a Nation that coordinates our after-work clothing according to who is pitching, and who thinks that a week’s salary is a perfectly reasonable price to pay for a Papelbon-signed game ball. We try to weave words like “wicked” into our daily vernacular and we think that “Sweet Caroline” is the most beautiful song ever written. We fans from outside of Boston are willing drive a six-hour round trip to see a three hour game from a tiny seat that may or may not even face home plate. We make commercials about giving our first born children to see the Sox win the World Series and then worry that someone we know might actually do so if it happens! We’ve taught the younger generation that “Yankees” is a bad word and we may or may not have caused one certain three year old boy to tell everyone he sees that “Yankees go to baby school!” (His words, not ours…)

While Sox fans are no stranger to heartache, over time the heartache has turned into hope and the hope has turned into great expectations for our team. Of course the pinnacle for any Sox fan born after 1918 came in 2004, but the joy was no less diminished the second time around in 2007. Now we’re spoiled and we expect greatness from our team. We know you don’t like to make it easy for us. You like to fall behind three games to one. You like to keep us up until all hours of the night to go into extra innings, so that we go to work all bleary-eyed and cranky the following morning. You like to make us turn off the TV in disgust only to sneak back a couple of minutes later to check on the score. But enough is enough. The last three games have been pathetic. We’ve become spoiled and we expect more of our beloved team!

I guess the point of my letter is to tell you that I’ve had the incredibly good fortune to obtain tickets for tomorrow’s game five against the Rays. So tomorrow, me, Picky, my sister and her friend (another die-hard fan) will drive six hours round trip to sit in tiny seats that probably don’t face home plate. We’ll wear personalized jerseys (away jerseys – you don’t put names on home jerseys) under our winter coats and hats because the forecast calls for it to be showery and cold. We’ll brave the T with the other crazy fans and we’ll eat a day’s salary worth of Fenway Franks. And if you dare to lose (again) and allow TAMPA BAY to clinch the ALCS in our presence I will be pissed – WICKED PISSED! Thank you for your consideration.

Sincerely,
Dames