With regard to the ongoing saga of the Boston Red Sox and their futile pursuit of one lousy little World Series triumph, I have always been of the opinion that it is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.
This time, I'm not so sure.
Who among us needed this?
I speak not as an embittered scribe who boldly predicted the Red Sox over the Yankees in five (while hinting that a sweep would not be inconceivable), but as a baseball-loving citizen of Greater Boston who is tired of the nonsense. If it's not 1918, it's the Yankees. If it's not Denny Galehouse, it's Bill Buckner. If it's not Bucky Dent, it's Aaron Boone. And then there is always the C-word. I'm tired of it all, and I had convinced myself -- yes, I'll say it -- that this really was The Year.
