Those of you who know me, know that I don’t follow sports. I’m interested, in at least a theoretical way, with playing sports, but not really with sitting down and watching them. Somehow, I find it hard to feel the empathy and irrational sense of empowerment that comes with a very special brand of obsessive-compulsive superstitious behavior that allows you to vicariously be part of The Team by wearing your Lucky Jersey that you haven’t washed since the Sox last won the World Series back in 1918. I just can’t get behind that.
But still, somehow, the story of the Red Sox got to me this time— no, not enough to actually watch the games, but at least feel some small satisfaction in the underdog coming back from being 3 games behind the Yankees to win the remaining four, and make it to the World Series where they creamed the hell out of the Cardinals. Now, I don’t believe in the supposed “curse” or any of that gibberish, but being able to root for the team who’s always the bridesmaid and never the bride, and in some small way to feel connected to the team’s home city because of my family history (my mom was born there), I think I was able to catch a tiny glimpse of the allure of professional sports and, in my own way, enjoy the victory.