Angry Peter

Author: Peter Yordan

Like the seasonal blight of mosquitos or the fresh coat of manure farmers spread across their fields, the oppressive stench of Red Sox mania descends annually upon Middlebury just as spring starts to win back its rightful title to the month of April. There is no greater bane upon the Middlebury sports landscape than the Red Sox flock. Once upon a time, I thought Yankees fans to be the worst fans in baseball, especially after spending the Subway Series hearing from female pinstripers the many virtues of Derek Jeter's butt. Three years in Middlebury, however, have taught me to appreciate the truly scarred perverseness that dominates the twisted psyche of a Red Sox fan.
You see, a Red Sox fan wants your sympathy and your disdain. He or she really wants you to bring up '86 and Bucky Dent and Babe Ruth, despite whatever protestations he or she may raise. They love losing horribly time after time, they need it. That hat they wear is a red badge of courage, an open wound they let fester for all to see. They are like Shias, forever flailing themselves in public for failing their own personal Alis-Yaz, Hendu, Nomar, whomever. "Pity me, admire my courage to root for the Sox," they say. "I'm so brave. I know they'll let me down somehow, but I keep coming back, I'm a true fan."
Dan Duquette's recent appearance on campus once again underscored this painful phenomenon. The question and answer session following his speech allowed the Red Sox faithful in attendance to join in the ritual group flagellation that always happens when Sox fans congregate.
"This is the year," they say, but they don't believe or even want it to be so. What would the Red Sox nation do without the misery that fuels the masochism upon which Boston is based? All the pity and derision from other fans around the country would evaporate. Wouldn't the city just implode? They want people to alternately mock and feel sorry for them so their lives can feel like some grand Shakespearean tragedy (Hamlet, Prince of Fenway). They want you to talk about 1918, while ignoring that Cubs fans (97 years and counting) placidly sitting in the next booth, relaxed, patient and sane. A World Series win at Wrigley would bring such true joy to Chicago, but they never cry out about their suffering for all to see. They hide it deep inside, never blaming some curse or some New Yorker or feeling sorry for themselves. Unfortunately the same can't be said for those mired in the shadow of the Green Monster.