Sox Offenders

Every year, the chasm between the last out in October and Opening Day seems to grow harder to bridge. Whether the Red Sox win it all or get knocked out by the unlikely Rays, once the World Series is over, the offseason hits us like a short-changed hooker. And despite the distractions offered by football, porn, and on-demand Pee Wee Herman movies, it just keeps hitting us. Then in March, just as we’re about to start taking hostages, the days get longer and the boys show up in Florida to throw some baseballs around. Suddenly, things don’t look so bad. Just a couple of booze-filled weeks from now, we’ll begin our annual six-month sabbatical. Beware friends, family and employers, it’s almost baseball season. And you need to know what you’re in for.

Family Time: By now everyone knows the drill. I get out of work; do a couple of shots at the corner pub just to get primed for the daily Road Rage Hour also known as my commute home. I’ll roll in about 6:30, have some dinner, and try not to look at the clock too often while asking questions that I really don’t care to hear the answer to. Like “how was your day?” and “why was the plumber’s truck peeling rubber out of the driveway again when I pulled in?” Then I drop a 12-pack into the cooler, strap on my do-it-yourself catheter, and fire up NESN. Unless you’ve got some insightful baseball observations to make or just want to worship at the Alter of Remy, you’d better stay the hell out of the way. Depending on the outcome of the game, I’m either refilling the cooler to watch the postgame show or coming to bed. Deal with it.

Friends: You guys get a much better deal than the rest of the people in my life. Other than the nights when I’m spending quality time with the family (see above), I’m generally at one local watering hole or another spewing The Gospel According to Theo or trying to pick a fight with anyone – male or female - who doesn’t have a Red Sox tattoo. God help the ones that mention the name of any Yankee without wishing them ill, preferably with some form of crotch-rot. So maybe they won’t be making any beer commercials about my nights out or any Hallmark movies about my life, but I do provide some entertainment to my friends. Not to mention state and local authorities.

Work: This is where things get particularly dicey. If I’m able to hang on to my job through April (two words: day games), I’m usually OK until the playoffs. Strolling in hung-over by 9:30 (still drunk if it’s a west coast road trip) has somehow become acceptable to my boss. Apparently he took my joking reference to a Seinfeld episode where I mentioned I would sew his ass to his face if gave me any shit as some sort of threat. Ever since then, he stays pretty quiet during the summer. My co-workers have learned to treat me with an appropriate balance of fear, respect and a sort of awe/revulsion mix; the latter usually exhibited when I show up shirtless with whatever letter I was at the game the night before still painted on my chest. The occasional poking of women’s butts with my foam-finger and trying to start the wave in the weekly budget meeting has become a tradition. As have the written warnings from HR.

There you have it, my schedule for the next six months. I apologize in advance for the birthdays, anniversaries, weddings and funerals I’ll miss. Next time plan it for the winter

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