Like most New Englanders, I was thrust into the role of a Boston Red Sox fan the instant I was born. Irish ethnicity, father from Concord MA, mother from northern CT.
I grew up like most kids attending Little League practice after school and playing games on the weekends. Sitting in math class I daydreamed about perfecting my 4-seam fastball and zipping it by Yankees hitters (Paul O’Neill was a popular mental target) as they awkwardly swung and missed, clinching our Red Sox victory in the ALCS. But like most kids, I outgrew my dreams of being the white Pedro Martinez when I tore the ACL in my knee and didn’t recover quite like I should have.
After a brief stint living in Arkansas, I am now back to where I belong: a short walk from Fenway Park. I’m what professional athletes refer to as a “keyboard warrior” or what casual baseball fans refer to as a “stats geek.” I have read Moneyball cover to cover, I have memorized the formulas for the majority of sabermetrics equations and measurements, and I will fight someone to the death over the importance of OBP over speed for a lead-off hitter.
None of that is really important though. The important part is that I love the Boston Red Sox, regardless of 86 years of misery or 2 championships in 4 years.