It was my 12th birthday. I had some friends over to watch a movie and then watch the Red Sox clinch the World Series by winning Game 6. I won't discuss the rest of the sleepover party, except to say it was my last.
For some reason, I kept watching along with my brother, my father, my uncle, my grandfathers, my mom -- all of us complained about the Sox, berated every manager, every underachiever, yet we continued to watch. Last year, Grady Little forced me to ask myself if I should even watch the Red Sox again. I envied all of these people who didn't care about baseball or the Red Sox. For months, I kept asking myself, "Why? Why am I doing this? Why won't I stop?"
Last night I learned why. There's so much to say, but right now the only thing I can say is "I don't believe it."
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