So it’s strange timing, perhaps, for me to write this post, considering the fact that my boys just lost the second game of the World Series vs the St. Louis Cardinals. And while I have to admit that this year has been so incredibly cray that I haven’t really been following my team, I still love them. Plus, I have a deep-seated dislike for the Cards.
All my Mizzou friends just threw stuff at their computer screens, I know, but it’s true. You guys are fucking obnoxious. All of you Cardinal fans are. I would know. I’m a Red Sox fan. We wrote the book on being obnoxious and loyal fans for no apparent reason.
But, you say, Erin, why on God’s green earth are you a Sox fan? You do know that you grew up watching the Rangers, right?
Yes, I know that.
All I can say is that when I was in high school, and I decided that I loved Boston and wanted to go to college there and live there happily ever after (which has yet to occur, obviously), the Red Sox were a part of that.
On my first visit to Boston, with my grandmother, I not only watched a game at a restaurant while we were there, but I also toured Fenway Park.
Let me tell you – there is something magical about that park.
I don’t know what, but there just is. It makes you want to love it. And baseball. And Johnny Damon (at the time).
So when they beat the Cards in the World Series my senior year (fall of 2004, for those of you who are counting), it seemed like a sign that everything was right with the world.
As I silently celebrated the win I heard through my headphones while attending an opera dress rehearsal – yes, I’m THAT stereotype, too – I could see my bright future laid out ahead of me. I could do it. I would go to Boston, major in communications, become a reporter and eventually a famous novelist, all in the most history-rich city in America.
But none of that happened.
No, instead, I ended up going to Mizzou – what I had referred to as my “Journalism safety school” – and majoring in Mag J and English while also rockin’ it as a PA for 2 years. See me in my pale purple, ghetto-fabulous dorm room rockin’ my Coco Crisp tee.
Then I decided reporting wasn’t for me, so I became a teacher. In middle school. Which means I have no effing time to write the great American novel. And it means that my students are just saucy enough to screw with me about it.
But still, I’m a Sox fan. It’s the one thing that I held on to from that dream – and I don’t think that I’ll ever let it go. Because at some point down the road, maybe I do live in Boston. Or maybe some other far-fetched and totally unrealistic goal will come true. That’s what being a Red Sox fan is all about.
Believing in a dream for so long that everyone else thinks you’re crazy, but you hold on to it. You won’t let it go. Because you know that someday, somehow, someway, it’s going to happen.
So yeah, I may have lived in Missouri for 4 years, but that doesn’t make me a Cards fan.
I am a Red Sox fan.
When I hear someone call out, “Yo, papi!” across the street late at night in Uptown, I turn and look, because, I mean…what if?
I was legitimately concerned when my random Freshman roommate had a Yankee Stadium sign up in the room on my arrival. (It worked out, don’t worry.)
Red, white, and blue aren’t really the flag colors to me, they’re BoSox colors.
That slushie called the “green monster” always makes me long for Fenway.
I have a poster of the Red Sox last supper – you know the one, Sox fans, where Johnny Damon is Jesus? I feel like that’s worth going to hell.
When Sweet Caroline comes on any radio, anywhere, I sing, damn it.
But most of all, because I’m a Red Sox fan, I believe.