Talk about worry!
The last few months have produced a lifetime of stress. Sleep has come and gone. There’s been sniping, yelling, anger, and crying. But over the last few days, it increased a thousandfold thanks to one brutal and damning fact:
I live with a Red Sox fan.
Diehard Red Sox fans are a different breed. If I ever want to shut Rebecca up or just make her blood pressure go up, all I need to do is utter the word “Buckner”, and suddenly, her skin goes from pasty white to beet red. Much to the detriment of my karma, I actually find it amusing. But until this past week, I’ve never had to see and contend with her in full fan mode, including what appears to be an ulcer that grows with each opposition hit and run.
Now, I consider myself to be a passionate sports fan. I cheer long and loud, and I liver and die with my teams in loyal fashion. I’ve always felt like I’m a class “A” enjoyer of our national pastime. I wear the colors, but I don’t riot when we win. But I have nothing on a diehard Sox fan.
Being a Boston fan means being committed to living and dying at the drop of a hat. It means shedding blood and sweat over each batter that a Sox pitcher faces. And it means crying and hurting deep inside when the Sox lose.
So last night, when Manager Grady Little stupidly left Pedro Martinez in for three batters too long and cost the Sox a trip to the World Series, I adopted a new role in my relationship with Rebecca: I’m the guy who says “Wait until next year” and tries to make the hurt and the tears go away.
It’s sort of weird, actually. All the shit we’ve been through lately, and it was the Sox dropping game 7 to the hated Yankees that left me feeling the most helpless in trying to mend her broken heart. It’s just a game…indeed. But for a little while, it made life seem not so bad.