Are you bored?
Does it get monotonous hanging out in the afterlife, playing pick-up games with Lou Gehrig, Joe Dimaggio, Mickey Mantle, Thurman Munson and the boys (I'd say Ted Williams, but honestly, wouldn't you feel just a bit awkward playing with him?)? Is it more fun to look through the dimensional portal and watch thousands of Red Sox fans get their hopes up every year, year after year, only to get them dashed to the proverbial rocks again and again? It must be boredom, Mr. Ruth, because holding a grudge this long just isn't sportsmanlike, and dammit, it isn't fair.
I mean, come on. Isn't eighty-five years enough time to get over this silly problem you had with getting booted out of Boston? Are you sitting back, watching us do this thing we do, laughing, drinking mugs of ghostly beer, waiting for us to finally, finally give up on our team and move into another camp such as *gasp*! your former team, perhaps?
Well, get this through your incorporeal head: It ain't gonna happen.
One thing about us, buddy, is we never, ever, desert our team. You see, we were there in 1967 when Carl Yastrzemski (oh, Yaz, how we miss you!), Reggie Smith, Rico Petrocelli, and the rest brought us just within reach of the Impossible Dream. We were there with Pudge Fisk in game six of the 1975 World Series, waving his home run fair and fairly dancing over the bases in sheer joy.
Yes, we were there. But we're not just fair-weather fans; we can't be, thanks to you. We were there, too, in game seven of that same '75 series when our hopes were crushed by the Cincinnati Reds. And 1986...we watched, shocked, as that infamous ground ball slipped through Bill Buckner's legs. We cried, and we kept on. We always came back... and guess what? We'll always keep on, always come back. This is just one stumbling block in a series, and not the Series we were aiming for.
Oh, but it's not going to break us. 'Cause when we say "wait 'til next year", we're not just offering up platitudes because we don't know what else to say. We really mean it.
So come on, Babe. Lighten up. Get an afterlife, for the gods' sake. Because eventually your silly curse will be broken. Then you'll have to go annoy someone else, or at least start to enjoy those damned pick-up games.
Wait 'til next year, you sick bastard. Oh, you just wait 'til next year.