by January O’Neil
I came to the party late,
long after Babe was sold to the Yanks
past the magic of Ted Williams and Yaz
and Buckner’s ball through the legs.
Didn’t understand The Curse
but the years without a championship
added up like runners on base
and no one to bring them home.
Generations of Red Sox fans
passed away without a World Series win.
The velocity of our hatred
was unmatched, and we liked it that way.
In 2003, we were Dirt Dogs.
A tribe. A nation. Even the anticipation
of spring training became a torture so real
it bordered on beautiful,
how beauty is supposed to reach us,
with a temporary luster,
with nothing to show for it
but our longing.
If you’re a member of this Nation
you’re full of hunger and angst,
there’s nothing you can do
to ease the silence. Win
or go home is the only option.
We watch no matter what,
learning to live with loss,
that soft hurt that never goes away.
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