The Boston Red Sox, whom I’ve loved since 1986 (yes, THAT World Series, remembered for Mr. Buckner’s bauble) just made it into this year’s World Series, so I’m going to have to squeeze into a jockstrap again in commemoration. You have your superstitious rites, I have mine. Besides, it’s been a while since I’ve joined in all the shirtlessness, and pretty soon it’s going to be way too cold for such nonsense.
As for the Red Sox, I still remember the first game I ever saw in person at Fenway Park. It was that same ill-fated year and they were playing the Blue Jays. At the time, I was more interested in Boston, and the paperwhite narcissus bulbs I just got at Quincy Market. They nestled in a brown paper bag beneath my seat. The game was good – they won! – but it didn’t captivate my interest like flowers or cobblestone streets. I sat with my Mom – my brother and Dad had better seats behind third base – it meant more to them.
I wouldn’t go back to see another game until my freshman year at Brandeis when it was part of the orientation activities. For that dismal game, when they were down by eleven points in the seventh inning, I left  a bit early, exploring Boston rather than witnessing another massacre. I’d like to go back and see another one through, but not until next year. (This time I’ll be avoiding Fenway when I’m in town next weekend. It would just be too much.) In the meantime, stay tuned for this year’s jockstrap spread…
