What do you think will happen when 86 years of frustration gets uncorked?
It’s happening, man.
Eighty-six years, we’ve been waiting. The Curse of the Bambino has dogged us ever since 1918. But we’ve been strong. We’ve stayed with our Red Sox the whole time, even after the Boston Massacre, even after 1986 when the Baseball Gods themselves descended and touched the ground at Shea and cost us the World Series, even after the latest black eye our mortal enemies in New York in 2003 when Boone homered off of poor Martinez.
But this time, we’ve got them right where we want them. We’ve already got the old Bambino on the symbolic ropes after hitting that kid living in his old house with a foul ball. Now that we’ve got our talisman, that lucky 1918 penny found stuck to a beer stand in Fenway Park, nothing, not the Yankees, not New York City, not even the Great Bambino himself will stop us.
Of course, if they don’t win, I wouldn’t want to be anywhere near Boston, either in-game or in real life.
Last year, when the Sox were knocked out of the playoffs, I was working a campus security job in Maine and we had a riot large enough to attract 16 cop cars worth of authorities. Beantown burning in November if they get there and drop the ball.
Boston globe ran the story today of an Emerson College student struck in the eye by a pepper spray bean bag projectile while cops tried to disperse unruly celebrants. She died from the wound.