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The Spiritual Death of the Red Sox Fan

With a World Series win, Boston loyalists are finally forced to confront reality.

by Staff | 2004.10.28

This morning, the erstwhile Red Sox fan peeled back his flannel L.L. Bean comforter and arose in the haze of a Sam Adams hangover with a smile on his ruddy cheeks. Memories of last night, albeit sudsy, are of great glory: kegmaster Lowe’s redemption after a season of mediocrity, Papi’s quirky sobriquet (“Papi”), Manny’s lovable outfield buffoonery, Damon’s papoose full of base-running acumen and Millar’s dimwitted but earnest leadership.

He shook his head, remembering how Green Monster the night had gotten after that final out. His Varitek jersey “Irished up” from a celebratory Budweiser dousing and awkward swan-dive into the beer pong table, the fan had raced down to Yawkey Way and thrust himself into the thicket of revelers squeezing out of Who’s on First. Later, throngs from Cask N’ Flagon and Beer Works turned that one-man feeder into a sea of stubble-faced Abercrombie-clad primates. The evening had culminated with a serious session with Jen from Brookline; she looked so fucking hot in that Trot Nixon St. Patrick’s Day Mitchell & Ness Throwback (yep, the Double Authentic one with the shoulder patch). And at one point, they were both screaming out Varitek’s name. It was a good thing that hottie had avoided those fatal beanbag projectiles from Beantown’s finest.

As the glow subsided, there soon emerged in the fan the uncomfortable and creeping suspicion that life for the Red Sox faithful had forever been altered. It wasn’t like back on July 24th, when Mueller had beaten the despised Yankees with that late-inning blast. This was different.

After four marvelous games against the Cardinals, the curse had been dispelled, and with it vanished the mystique that Sox fans had lovingly cultivated for so long. It made sense to embrace the Curse of the Bambino – Bucky Dent’s homerun, Bill Buckner’s tragic miscue, Grady Little’s managerial faux pas – these were easier to digest as part of some cosmic plan. Like the suicide bomber who dutifully steps up into that Israeli bus, the Red Sox fan could accept martyrdom. But there aren’t 70 virgins at the end of this tale, just one drunk pasty broad in a Trot Nixon throwback (Double Authentic).

When the Sox came up short year after year, it was easy to forget that their payroll was second only to the Yankees. It was easy to forget their tickets were the most expensive in baseball. It was easy to forget that this was a team whose superstars had been plucked from the grasp of clubs from smaller markets. Damon, Manny, Ortiz, Pedro, Schilling, Foulke: mercenaries all. Self-righteously comparing the Sox to the Yankees is akin to Stalin making a diss song about Hitler entitled “He’s mean”.

It’s wonderful that the Red Sox have finally won a World Series. This is the proper reward for the legions of fans who have absorbed countless episodes of heartbreak only to return the following April with renewed hope and vigor. Yes, Sox faithful are as passionate as any soccer hooligans.

Happily for the rest of us, Boston boosters can no longer whine. They can no longer wheeze with the effort of staggering under the weighty cross they have all-too-willingly borne as Bo-Sox fans. They can no longer insist that people take their affection for a sports team more seriously than anyone should take affection for a sports team. The Canadian inferiority complex they’ve adopted towards New York City can finally subside, at least until they compare their one-dimensional cowtown to Gotham under the parameters of anything non-baseball related. We all win.

The masquerade is over. With a World Series win, any sincerity in the cloying self-righteousness of Sox fans has been forever exorcized. They are now like the Evil Empire in every way, as the rich history of ineptitude was the solitary thread connecting the Red Sox to the prized cardigan of underdogship. The coveted role of cutesy lovable loser is now in the sole possession of the Chicago Cubs (a fact sure to be marketed with ferocity by MLB next season). The Red Sox were never like the Marlins -- a scrappy team who defeated the Yankees on a shoestring budget -- in any form other than in the addled minds of their fans. Boston is just another franchise ruining the AL East, rendering respectable franchises such as Baltimore, Toronto and Tampa Bay nothing more than hopeless farm teams. At its heart, the fabled “Curse” was little more than a convenient excuse for getting the FOX ratings up in major markets and a reason to run endless sepia-toned commercials with Franz Ferdinand rocking in the background.

Enjoy your new reality-based life, Sox fans.

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