Fenway Frankly my Dear, I don't Give a Damn!

Ahhh confessions and open letters...the mainstay of your average American blogger. I am not sure why it is that we all think that our confessions somehow make entertaining reading, but I know that I like writing them. So here is another one for you.

My name is Robin. I live in Massachusetts and I don't give a rat's ass about baseball OR the Red Sox. This is going to be the longest day of my life...WHOA! 24 flashback there, sorry!

I guess opening day just came and went and I'll tell you what, I just don't care! Not that I have ever pretended to care before this, or that somehow I feel that this makes me a freak among humans...it's just the facts.

I grew up with a Dad who basically lived, ate and breathed sports. I'm not kidding, either! He basically ate little more than peanuts, crackerjacks and hot dogs, and that is the God's honest truth...my mom logs on here and I am sure she will attest to it! He managed to groom me for a short period of time when I was about 10 and turn me into a Red Sox fan "mini me", but, like with a lot of things in my life, I lost interest...or went into puberty or something like that. I've been ambivalent ever since.

Now, in the general course of human events (mine ESPECIALLY) such a person who loathes such a noble institution as this, would be fated to meet and fall irretrievably in love with the president of the fan club of this noble institution. I am here to tell you that this did NOT happen to me. My husband probably has even LESS knowledge of the local teams than I do. We roll our eyes in tandem when our diehard sox fan friends launch into stunning stories of pop flies, green monsters, outrageous parking prices and the amazing exploits of such superheroes as Nomar, Papi and Captain Caveman. We share a secret smile between us when others are screaming in hysterics at some ballpark outrage or another.

I think that in the long run, we are going to live longer than our fan friends. After all, we aren't going to spend our lives with the highlight of each year being the privilege to occupy a 30 dollar space on a bleacher seat in 101 degree weather, swilling 10 dollar cups of beer and screaming so loudly that veins burst in our temples, the anxiety of an ancient "curse" has never bothered us, and we have never spent a weekend locked in our bedroom with the lights turned off, hugging our stuffed "Wally" and sobbing softly because our team missed its chance to make it to the series!

So there you have it; another exciting revelation shared. I feel closer to all of you already. Well, except for you Yankee fans...HA! CURSE DENIED, ya BASTIDS!

UPDATE: I just read this today and thought it was pretty funny



Little Johnny Damon Gets No Respect