As I left my apartment this morning to go out to run some errands, I grabbed at hat to wear. I don't wear hats too often but when I do, I usually default to my Red Sox hat. It occurred to me as I was walking around that perhaps I should have chosen a different hat. It was only a week after the Sox completed the greatest regular season collapse in baseball history and days after they forced out Terry Francona, the manager who made the Red Sox blowing a lead be something unexpected. It was no time to be showing pride in my team.
I got the hat in 2003, the first year I lived in Boston. It was after the season had ended, after the Aaron Boone home run crushed my soul, after I had been a fan for all of my 18 years with no championship season to show for it. The Red Sox were my team, though, and I wanted the hat. The mood after that season was different than today--not from the team, the manager was still fired, but from the fans. The way the season ended was horrible and probably worse than what happened this year. We didn't know anything different, though. We mocked ourselves for thinking that they could actually win the World Series. We bonded together, like we did every year, over the misery of defeat.
This year's Red Sox collapse reminded me of what being a Red Sox fan before 2004 meant. It didn't mean winning championships, or even winning games. It meant having Don Orsillo's giggle waft throughout our house all summer long. It meant listening to my Dad talk about wins and losses and trades and rules. It meant, win or loose, going to a game felt like Christmas morning. It meant seeing Red Sox fans in other areas of the country and high fiving them. The Red Sox wove themselves into our lives and became a family member.
After this season ended, I was pissed off off at them, disappointed in them, concerned about their future, and questioning my loyalty to them. I still loved them, though, so I wore the hat.
