I am a citizen of the Red Sox Nation. I was born into it. It's part of my heritage.
When I was growing up, I learned about disappointment while watching Red Sox games with my dad. Every year, the questioned loomed. "How will they manage to blow it this year?"
The team I remember was the 1967 "Impossible Dream Team." I can still name every starting player in that lineup. Yaz was my childhood sports hero and even today I respond with a surge of emotion when I hear his name.
There were many years in my adulthood during which I paid little attention to baseball. By the time David and Jackson were a few years old, though, it was clear that baseball would become a regular part of my life again. David's first word was "ball." His first lessons in math were in sorting out the numbers on the sports pages in the newspaper. From April through October, the Red Sox Radio Network has been part of our daily lives. From opening day until the team "blows it" at the end of the season, we've ended the day waiting for the words, "Way back, way back, this ball is gone!"
Along the way, I introduced Marion to Red Sox Fever. So often in past years, we'd be on the phone with each other, chatting about the day while each of us had a radio going in the background, tuned in to the game.
Now, we listen to the games together. Today, game-time was at 3:15 and we tuned the radio in the truck to Red Sox radio to listen to Kurt Schilling's outing against the LA Angels. Cutting wood. Swinging a hammer. Waiting for the big hit. What better way to spend a Saturday afternoon.
By the time I was finishing up the siding on the shed, the Red Sox had taken a commanding lead. After driving the last nail, we retired to Gypsy's front porch with a beer and listened as David Ortiz hit a "monster shot," a three run homerun to put the Sox up 8 to nothing. Life is good.
Both baseball and Marion have been very, very good to me.