Letter: A fan’s realization

Tidings of things I don’t want to know. In the second inning of the ALCS championship, Peavy, our pitcher walked three batters in a row, and by doing so walked in a run. In the same inning our go-to guy, Pedroia, bobbled the ball stalling a double play allowing another run to score. I had to leave the room. I couldn’t watch our band of beards disintegrate. I have no reserves for persevering in the face of extinction.

On the positive side, we finished the series at Fenway, had home field advantage, and had our rabid Red Sox fans cheering on their men, their boys, their superstitious team of crazies. Socks high, hitless — socks low, a double flies into outfield and drops. Socks stay down for the rest of the series. Touch the helmet, tap the toes, pull on a beard. I have finally stopped sitting in one position, the one I was sitting in when Papi hit the grand slam. I am slowly getting the notion that I personally have no effect on the outcome of the game, and neither does my husband. When he said things like, “O for four, he’s do,” I used to shush him for sending out a jinx into the baseball world. I’m getting used to my insignificance and I’m therefore getting a lot less leg cramps during games. However, that isn’t to say that when the next grand slam flies over the fence you won’t find me frozen in place, sure that my crossed legs and folded hands might maybe, just maybe have something to do with our boys going all the way. Go Sox!



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