bktheirregular

I was born in 1971 in Columbia University Medical Center, at the north end of Manhattan Island, within a stone's throw of the old Hilltop Park, the home of the New York Highlanders, who would become the New York Yankees.

My parents never told me any of this, but I suspect that New Yorkers are subjected to an arcane ritual on birth or naturalization that allows them to become fans of the New York Yankees without their souls being sandblasted away to oblivion. Some choose otherwise, as is their right, but calling New York home allows us that luxury. (The invocation is dissipated as soon as you wish misery upon them, and cannot be cast a second time.)

However ... those who invoke the protection of that semi-ancient ritual, which may or may not involve being anointed with beer from the last barrel brewed by Colonel Jacob Ruppert, occasionally find themselves burdened with obligations they (I should say we) find distasteful.

To wit: I have sympathy for the Chicago Cubs. Up until now, I have wished them well, and have winced in sympathy at their difficulties.

However...

If the reports are accurate, and the Cubs are now being placed in the hands of Theo Epstein, that must change.

I'll still wish the Cubbies well, and hope that they ascend to the peak ... just as soon as they rid themselves of the taint of the Red Sox.

The taint isn't that the Sox won. It isn't even that they won by defeating the Yankees in the most agonizing manner possible. It's that in victory, their fan base became vengeful and bloodthirsty and ...

...sorry. I'm still bitter. It took me a while to get over 2004, and it also took a different arcane procedure to allow me to look at baseball with some semblance of equanimity. (That procedure was painful. Think the Klingon Rite of Ascencion, only with good bagels.)

Intellectually, I think I may still want the Cubbies to do well, but I dare not challenge the arcane rituals, lest my own soul be torn away as I cast aside their protection.

Well, there's one point where I can unreservedly root for the Cubs.

That'd be when the Red Sox go to Wrigley.

Baseball helps keep me sane when I'm seven time zones away from home. I was very pleasantly surprised when I found out that a game console I'd bought for the new apartment would also allow me to stream baseball games on my TV.

(This is the same TV that I use for video calls with my folks back home. It's official, gang: we're living in the future.)

Anyhoo, while waiting for a ballgame to come on - afternoon games on the East Coast start at 8pm my time, and night games begin at two o'clock the next morning - I read a little something on one blog or another, I forget where.

A commenter confidently predicted that in the upcoming Yankees-Red Sox game, Curtis Granderson would win the game with a walk-off five-run home run in the top of the second.

Like one of those pictures in the old Highlights magazines that you'd find in the doctor's office as a kid: how many things can you spot wrong with this picture?

(Can't share the joke at the water cooler, unfortunately. Another downside of working abroad is that nobody understands baseball here.)

OK, Red Sox Nation. Your team won, in convincing fashion, so you have every reason to celebrate. Two things:

One: Be gracious in victory. Every year, thirty-one teams fall short, and sooner or later, you're going to be one of those thirty-one teams again. Getting kicked in the teeth when you're down on the ground is unpleasant to experience, so think twice before you do it to others, right?

And speaking of kicking people while they're down:

Two: Would you kindly stuff Curt Schilling into a packing crate until, oh, say, Thanksgiving? And while you're at it, would you kindly 86 the air holes?

How long until pitchers and catchers report to spring training again?

My mom learned about baseball by watching the Yankees broadcasts on Channel 11 in New York; my first exposure to the great game was listening to the announcing team of Frank Messer, Bill White and Phil Rizzuto.

Messer and White were good for following the game, but I'd have to say it was the Scooter who gave me the bug, who taught me to love the game.

1917-2007.

Quick question for Cubs fans on the f-list.

Did you ever reach a point during a season where you just threw up your hands and wanted no more to do with baseball for a while - in the middle of a season?

Just curious.