It’s October 17, 2004, a miserable excuse for a Sunday. I’m tired as hell from my trip to New York, and its production night for Bryan McBournie and me at our college newspaper, The Tartan. We go in to start our layouts, and hardly say a word to anyone, people want to ask us if we’re ok, but even the non-sports fans knew that today was not the day to talk. Today is our death march. Today is what we have come to expect as individuals. Today we have our souls carved out again. Today is hell. Today the Red Sox get swept, and there is not a damn thing we can do but watch.
Normally when we go to our watering hole, BT’s, its all smiles. We know the bartenders, know the waitresses, and are occasionally rewarded for our patronage with a warm shot of house tequilla for free. Not tonight though. Even our most familiar bartender Todd has a grimace on his face when we come in during the sixth inning. He fills a pitcher of Keystone, hands us two mugs and forces a smile. McBournie and I sit in the semblance of a dining area that only a college “restaurant and fine dining” bar can offer. The game is on the big screen, it’s 4-3 New York, and we know were its headed, this is our fate as Red Sox fans. Doom. Elevated hope that eventually crushes even your will to want to even get up the next day. It’s sick that we get this way as fans, but we’re a different breed, and fate is a fickle broad. Continue reading Eat My Sports: Boston translation