For every Red Sox game I have watched in full Red Sox gear, I've run into inevitable criticism from the bitter Yankees fan who know where I'm from.
The scene plays itself like this. (I'll spare you the questions.)
"OK, so I'm not from Boston, I know. "Yes, yes, I'm from New York. Yes, that's right, I'm not a Yankees fan. Yeah, the Mets," I say, sheepishly and in an almost inaudible voice.
The conversation usually ends there, as I am rendered silent by uncontrollable laughter, or am forced to give a complicated explanation for why I like the Sox.
It usually goes something like, "Well, I went to summer camp for 10 years with kids from Boston and the excitement of actually winning was contagious,"or the less complicated, "I love Fenway."
Truth be told, I am a Mets fan at heart, but have been scarred so deeply over the past four years (the most important sports intellectual growth years of the male adolescent) that the Sox have offered me a fresh alternative.
The Sox fan may be thinking to himself at this point, "Are you kidding me?" Well, for all of you, if you haven't put down the paper yet, you would definitely do the same if you were in my place.
Let's play Would You Rather? for a second. Would you rather be watching World Series of Poker reruns in early August, the same one you watched last week, and the week before, because it is physically painful to watch your 60-71 franchise? Or watch your team play consecutive series in a pennant race against the Yankees in two of the most storied parks in baseball, even if the ending in years past was always bitter.
Would you rather go to a Mets game against the Rockies at gag-inducing Shea Stadium in September to watch Aaron Heilman pitch against Jason Jennings with a crowd only the Expos deserve? Or watch the Sox rally in the ninth against the Orioles at a packed Fenway Park in search of their third consecutive ninth inning come-from-behind win?
I have followed the Sox religiously through the happy times and the bitter times of the last few years, enough to know that the blue and orange within me is slowly being replaced by red, white, and navy.
When I settle down with my family some day in Newton, looking back on my transition from Mets to Red Sox, I'll probably point to the Scott Kazmir trade as the turning point.
Here was an 18-year-old lefty who threw in the mid-'90s that the Mets went ga-ga over when he fell to 15th in the 2002 amateur draft. Then, before ever seeing him pitch, Mets public relations announced that Kazmir's target for the majors would be late 2004, early 2005, and that his status in the Mets system regarding trades was "untouchable."
Then Mets management, in what probably will go down as one of the all-time bonehead moves, decided that, at 43-41 with half a season left to play and a game out of first in the NL East, that this is the year. They traded Kazmir to Tampa Bay for minor leaguer Bartolome (Un)Fortunato and Victor Zambrano, a guy who hits the strike zone one out of every three pitches.
Guess what happens. Zambrano goes down with a season-ending elbow injury after making two starts and the Mets go on a historic 2-19 tear, losing fans and games at a directly proportional rate. Tampa Bay smartly wasted no time in giving Kazmir experience, calling him up weeks after the deal was made to start against Seattle, and he went five scoreless innings, wowing the Mariners with mid-'90s heat and a great curve.
Weeks later, I got the pleasure of watching him live on NESN as he struck out the first six Red Sox batters he faced en route to a six-inning, no run, three-hit, nine-strikeout performance, out-dueling Pedro Martinez for a 5-2 Devil Rays victory. Jerry Remy compares Kazmir's stuff to a young Koufax, and I compare the different shades of my vomit.
Usually at this point of the year, I can forget all about the Mets' 10-year rebuilding plan, and focus my attention on the other bane of my existence: the New York Rangers. But the lockout, the unparalleled success of BC sports, and the improbable post-season run by the Red Sox have reminded me of the ineptitudes of my home team.
Well, my former home team. Now I feel, in the words of the soon-to-be immortal Standells, "Boston, you're my home,"
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