It's October again. And "October" generally means heartbreak in Red Sox land. When I was 16, I was standing in Section One when Bucky Dent - no relation to Babe Ruth - homered in a playoff game to silence Fenway Park. When I was 24, I was uncorking sparkling apple cider in the bottom of the 10th when Bill Buckner - no relation to Bucky Dent - botched a ground ball and dashed our hopes yet again. It goes on and on. I tried everything. I bought a Yankees cap and tried rooting for the dark side. I bought a soccer ball and tried another sport. But most Octobers, or too often in October, I found myself lying face down on the living room floor, aghast, defeated, a Red Sox fan.
Then came Big Papi, Manny's dredlocks and Curt Schilling's bloody sock. In 2004, something shifted in the universe, and the Sox won it all. I was sitting in another living room, 3000 miles from Fenway, silly with delirium. In 2007, it happened again. Silly.
But this summer came revelations that key figures in the Red Sox renaissance used banned substances, steroids presumably, and the whole thing seemed tainted again. Yick. Even Papi, the hero of '04 and '07, tainted, bewildered, less of a hero now.
And days ago: another October disaster. Snatching defeat from the jaws of victory. It all feels so familiar. I swear to myself I'll never care again. I rummage through the closet for that old soccer ball. Look for the Yankees cap.
But the thing is, it'll be Halloween soon, and then Thanksgiving and Christmas. Fifty days after that, pitchers and catchers report for spring training in Florida. And I'm hooked. It really has very little to do with winning. It has to do with leather gloves, blue skies and a place called Fenway Park. It has to do with crazy catches in center field, unbelievable losses in extra innings, hitters sacrificing so a teammate can run home. Spring will come again, it always does, and the grass will be green.
I'm a Red Sox fan and I've learned pretty well: losing is October's way of saying spring is coming.
