An Introduction to an Obsession

Christians have Jesus; Muslims have Allah; I have the Boston Red Sox.

I'll be the first to admit that my love affair with the Sox borders on obsession. My dorm room at the University of Iowa is a veritable shrine to Pedro Martinez (back when he was, you know, good) and Daisuke Matsuzaka, my wardrobe is built around my collection of Sox jerseys and t-shirts, and I recently had the Boston logo tattooed on my arm. My name is Cali, and I'm addicted to the Red Sox.

Blame my addiction on my father. He was born and raised in New England as the younger brother of (God knows why) a Yankees fan. It was therefore his brotherly duty to do the opposite of everything his big brother did, a duty that included becoming a Red Sox and Brooklyn Dodger booster. When I showed up a few decades later, he passed this ideal on to me. The rest, as they say, is history.

I live and breathe for the BoSox. I cried when Aaron Fuckin' Boone knocked my boys out of the 2003 postseason. I hyperventilated when we finally broke the Curse of the Bambino the next year. I had an orgasm when I snapped a picture of David Ortiz slapping the game-winning double against the Rays in my first game at Fenway in August of 2007. Hell, I'd have Dustin Pedroia's babies in a heartbeat. Now, through the wonders of the Internet, I can share my addiction with the world. You've been warned.

"Don't blame us if we ever doubt you
You know we couldn't live without you
Red Sox, you are the only only only"
- Dropkick Murphys