Dead Man's Party

I warned them. I tried, I really tried.

Two Irish lads, immigrants to the United States, with their visas stamped for the Red Sox Nation. Decked out in recently purchased Red Sox jerseys so shining white you knew they were just off the rack, screaming and yelling and cheering with thick brogues; cries of 'there's yer man' in a Cork accent for every Pedro strikeout and 'fer fuck's sake' for every Nomar out.

"You can still walk away from this," I said to them, as Pedro began to implode on the mound, "it's not too late for you."
They stared at me, not quite comprehending. Neither of them said anything.
"Look, you have to understand - the Red Sox are going to do this to you. Every year. For the rest of your life. Quit now while you're ahead."
Still no reply. Ah well I thought, I tried. There's no hope for me. I'm like a junky when it comes to the Sox. I know this stuff is bad for me. But I do it anyway. But those two - they can quit before they're hooked. Before the monkey gets on their backs.

After eight and half, I stepped outside the local. I had to regroup, to take in some cool night air and quiet, soothe my twitching nerves. I was staring out into the parking lot when I heard the door to the local open and close behind me. I looked over my shoulder and say my two acquaintances disappearing into the night. Running - literally running - across the parking lot. Good on them I thought. A wise decision.

I made some half-hearted joke to Heather's Certain Someone, who was also outside trying to hold it together, and headed back inside. It was a grim scene in there. No more of the full open-throated cheering that had greeted the earlier heroics of Trot, Tek and the boys. Now there were scream of rage, shrill accusations made at the TV, inarticulate sounds of anger and grief. How can you cheer in a situation like that? It'd be like the condemned trying to sing For He's A Jolly Good Fellow on the way to the Death House.

It was like a goddam firing squad.

And yet...

...I know I'll be back for more. Next year. Next spring.

Every so often I meet that girl - the one who makes me feel short of breath, who makes me do a double take, who makes my heart race. When I do I know it may end in heartbreak - always has ended in heartbreak. But each time, I ante up for more, buy the ticket and take the ride.

And every so often - in a strange symmetry to the series of explosion we call Dan's romantic history - I encounter that Red Sox team - the ones who stretch my nerves to the breaking point but somehow make me believe that maybe - just maybe - this is the year. When I do I know it may end in heartbreak - always has ended in heartbreak. But each time, I ante up for more, buy the ticket and take the ride.

I'm hoping for an intervention at this point. This is an illness and I need help.