Did You Get That Memo?
How did I forget about this? The worst thing, the worst worst thing about the Sox losing big isn't even the loss. It's the inane conversations I'm forced to have about it the next day.
Though I have taken to listen to Dennis & Callahan in the morning the last few weeks (though I end up switching the channel without fail when they turn to politics--it's one thing to have views, boys, but there's a reason you're in sports broadcasting and not in Rush Limbaugh's chair), today I listened to a CD on my way to work. I have read other blogs today, but not the papers. I am in total lockdown mode. The only way for me to retain a shred of sanity is just to pretend it didn't happen, at least for the time being.
But no. Around my office(s) and in the circles I travel, everyone knows I'm a Sox fan. In fact, I'm not just a Sox fan; in most of the places I find myself, I'm the Sox fan. Which means that when I stumble in to work or to the coffee shop the morning after a tough loss, everyone wants to talk to me about it, wants to get me to tell them all about how I'm feeling or comment on how you can always tell by my face whether the Sox have won or lost or even say teasingly, "What happened to the Sox last night? I didn't have a TV where I was, I haven't heard."
And this doesn't just happen once, or two or three times. It happens dozens of times, all freakin' day. Last year after Game 7, the first person I saw that morning started talking at me for about fifteen solid minutes about some World Series game he saw where they were scoreless into extra innings and one pitcher was pitching a perfect game and then...I managed to croak out, "I really don't want to talk about it," and he just kept talking. Never skipped a beat. I'll never forget it.
To all the people who just let me be today without casting simpering looks in my direction or feeling the need to make some kind of comment: I breathe a silent thank you in your general direction.