A not-so-red October

One October, many years ago, when I was young and the earth was new, my father pulled me aside and said: "Son, don't you grow up to be a Boston fan. Those teams will break your heart."

And as I watched him turn the television off with the most melancholic sigh, I suspected that he might never watch the Red Sox again.

Of course, within just a few months, my father-his heart mended and his faith restored-again reassumed his seasonal vigil, watching the team he had grown up loving and hating and loving once more try to "reverse the curse."

My dad's fatherly advice about guarding my heart echoed the words of Bart Giamatti, the 7th commissioner of Major League Baseball, and an ardent Red Sox aficionado.

"It breaks your heart. It is designed to break your heart. The game begins in the spring, when everything else begins again, and it blossoms in the summer, filling the afternoons and evenings, and then as soon as the chill rains come, it stops and leaves you to face the fall alone. You count on it, you rely on it to buffer the passage of time, to keep the memory of sunshine and high skies alive, and then, just when the days are all twilight, when you need it most, it stops."

Having lived in New England his entire life, dear old dad is more than familiar with the Curse of the Bambino and the Sox's uncanny ability to lose even when winning seems as inevitable as the morning sunrise. In fact, for the better part of the last century, Einstein's Theory of Relatively mathematically confirmed that E=mc u next season, where E=October in Boston.

Yet, all of New England would awaken each spring with a renewed and starry-eyed faith in the Boys from Boston. As the weeks slipped by, the congregation of the Fenway Faithful would breathlessly hang by radios and televisions, religiously praying "you gotta believe."

Pilgrimages to Fenway were planned so devotees could fill the stands and lend their fervent support to the team they adored. Others would listen to their radios or turn on their TVs as those Boys of Summer made it seem oh-so-certain that this just had to be "the year."

Boston had won, the curse had been broken, and a "new dynasty" was (hastily) proclaimed-much to the chagrin of the Yankees, and much to the dismay of those poor, poor Cubbies.

But alas, there was to be no double dipping in the nacho cheese dish of consecutive Red Sox World Series appearances.

It's only early October, and I've already washed, folded and stored my lucky Red Sox shirt. It's the one I wear when Boston plays a weekend series against a heated (and hated) rival. It's the one I refuse to watch a Sox game without wearing. And it's the one that, during the playoffs, I won't wash until after the Sox end their season. For now it sits in the dark recesses of my bureau, waiting like the Punxsutawney Phil of baseball for the light of spring.

But, I suppose, this not-so-red October shall also pass. Then after football, spring will come, and it'll all begin again.

The ability to deal with life's unavoidable disappointments makes Sox followers such great fans of Boston baseball. Very much in the same way that my dad refers to me as his son-because he was (jokingly?) devastated when he found out that I was a girl and now just pretends that it didn't happen that way-the same is true for all of the Red Sox Nation.

Sometimes things don't work out as anticipated. And maybe despite that, or even because of it, you wind up loving it so much more.

Boston Cote is Trinity senior. Her column runs every Friday.