#EPICFAIL: the return of the 86ers

For 86 years the Boston sports fan’s image was defined by the Curse of the Bambino and its periodic avatars, like Bucky Fucking Dent. And Aaron Fucking Boone. And Bill Buckner, who later tried to commit suicide by throwing himself in front of a bus, only to have the bus go between his legs (rim shot). The Boston brand was futility, the yearly ritual of hope and its eventual collapse into despair.

Then, miraculously, the Sox won two titles, and I predicted then that the entire character of the New England collective personality would change. And it did. Between the two World Series wins, another Celtics title and three Super Bowl rings for the previously hapless Patriots, Boston fans got…entitled? Heck, even the Bruins are respectable. Once the subject of sympathy in the sports world (except for the Cs, that is), Boston sports enthusiasts have gotten louder and more demanding, and now they are hated by the rest of the world just like Yankees fans. Once upon a time hating on the Red Sox was like hating on widows, orphans and the poor.

This morning, the 86ers are back with a vengeance heretofore unimagined, unimaginable. The most overused term of our age is perhaps #EPICFAIL, but truly, this was as epic a failure as sports has seen in a very long time. Add Jonathan Fucking Papelbon and Carl Fucking Crawford to the list. An ugly balance in the cosmic symphony is restored.

Is the fatalism back, the sense of doom that begins building shortly after the Sox break camp and head north? Is the Ghost of the Bambino back for an encore?

Stay tuned. We’ll know in a few years….


  • Robert Becker

    Well, let’s not write off a good team. NO question, if you lose Buchholz — and then your two aces fail in the last weeks of the season — and you have to insert has beens like Wakefield or Lackey — you are going to lose games. No one can score 10 runs a game.

    But for Papelbon to throw high pitch after pitch — and when he didn’t have to, well, maybe he was fatigued. Looked that way.

  • I feel a little bad. I’ve spent the last five seasons rooting against the Sox for the sole reason that they made my evening commute a nightmare that would increase in intensity as the playoffs drew nearer and my neighborhood descended into a raucous, frothy, glass shrapnel filled circle of hell. (Sure, that’s a generous description of parts of Allston on a regular night, but game nights were beyond…)

    Except, I moved in the middle of this season to a nice, quiet street far far away from any Red Sox home game travel snarls and sports bar overspill, and I forgot to stop rooting against them. I cheered at the collapse, until I remembered that success wouldn’t drive me nutty any more and realized that maybe it would have been nice to cheer for the home team in the playoffs for once.


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