When Keith Foulke lobbed the ball to first baseman, Doug Mientkiewicz to cinch the 2004 World Series, most “die-hard” Red Sox fans couldn’t believe their eyes. The curse that had plagued their team for 86 years was over. The Red Sox had won the World Series!

This die-hard believed everything, but celebrated nothing, because the die-hard in me had already died. But I was okay with that...

We always had a love/hate relationship, the Red Sox and me. Well, I loved and hated them, depending on the outcome of the most recent game, series, or season. They didn’t really know or care about me at all, but our moments of misery and subsequent triumph seem to be eerily aligned by the twisted hands of fate.

You might manage to find a tinge of motivation or inspiration in this story if you look hard enough. However, it’s a bit ridiculous to think that the beginning of my life was so centered on whether or not the Red Sox won their last ballgame. That’s an insane way to live, but I didn't realize that until much later in life.

A Love Affair Begins

The moment my dad took me to my first game at Fenway Park, I was hooked. There was something about the unsteady roar of the crowd that created this air of intensity. It was unlike anything else I had experienced in my childhood. Also, being able to see—in-person—the players I had watched on television was amazing. Jim Rice was right in front of my wide eyed stare; so was Fred Lynn, Dwight Evans, Rick Burleson, and Carlton Fisk. I was in the building of baseball gods, and it was an experience I would cherish forever.

Going to a game with Dad became an annual tradition that I looked forward to almost as much as Christmas. My dad didn't usually have a whole lot of time to spend with the kids; not because he didn't want to (Although who could blame him if that was the case?), but because he had to work almost non-stop to pay the bills. He worked what seemed like seven thousand hours per week, so time with him was at a premium.

That one game every year was an amazing opportunity to spend the entire day with my dad, talking about guy stuff, eating bad food, and watching baseball. What could be better?

Broken Hearts over Broken Bones

My fandom for the team officially approached the level of die-hard in October 1978. I was eight years old and at the doctor’s office for a visit with my parents to talk about a series of surgeries I was about to undergo.

We were there because I was born with a rare genetic condition, where the bones in my legs became extremely weak, which made them develop into a reverse bow-legged shape. They looked like opposing greater-than, less than mathematical symbols.

The doctor was explaining how the attempted correction was going to require several months of being in a body cast and a long, slow road to recovery. But this is not the story of a frightened child. It is one of extreme irony and an unconventional form of unrequited love.

The doctor was talking and my parents were listening, but I was in another world. Was I preoccupied with the thoughts of extended hospital stays and a summer of immobility? No. I was paying far more attention to the transistor radio I insisted we bring with us to the appointment.

My doctor’s visit happened to be on the same day as the historic 163^rd game of the 1978 baseball season—a tie-breaking contest between the Red Sox and Yankees to determine which team would move on to post-season play. 

“The old man’s still got it!” Dr. Watts exclaimed, as we heard the home run call of Carl “Yaz” Yastrzemski’s shot off Ron “Louisiana Lightning” Guidry in the second inning to give the Red Sox a 1-0 lead.

I smiled and cheered as I prepared myself for the rest of the day’s events... the baseball game, that is. I figured I had plenty of time to worry about the surgeries later, or not.

Unfortunately, the Sox didn't hold on to that lead. Any self-respecting Sox fan from my generation knows that Bucky bleepin’ (as he's been not so affectionately called ever since that day) Dent served as the unlikely hero of the Pinstripers that day.

The Red Sox carried a two-run lead into the bottom of the seventh inning, when Dent—a “punch and Judy hitter for his entire career” somehow managed to put one into the net over the Green Monster in left field with two runners on and two outs. 

It was far from a majestic blast. Actually, it looked more like a harmless popup that was carried over the wall by the omnipresent spirit of the Bambino himself. 

The Red sox went on to lose 5-4 that day after coming up one run short in a bottom of the ninth inning rally. That experience broke my baseball heart for the first time at eight years old. I cried a river of red tears for the next few months, before going into a body cast for almost the entire spring and summer of 1979. But remember, this story is about broken hearts, not broken bones.

Bounce Back

Eight-year-olds often seem crushed when moments of magnitude go awry, but they have a resiliency that adults can't match. There’s usually a short period of inconsolable emotional outpouring, followed by a jarringly quick rebound.  

Because of that resiliency of youth, I recovered quickly, not only from my broken Red Sox heart, but also from the many leg surgeries I had that left me unable to move for the better part of a year. Before long, I was outside running, jumping, and playing with the neighborhood kids, as if my legs were made of titanium.

One especially great memory I have of that time in my life was a twisted little activity my brother, Steve and I enacted with baseball cards.

Almost every week we walked to the corner store and bought a few packages of cards with our meager allowance. At one point, we had upwards of a thousand cards stored in this big, beat-up, old cardboard box. There were players from both leagues and there were probably even a few rare cards that could have fetched more than a fair price, if my mother hadn’t given them all away for a dollar at a yard sale years later. Ugh!

One oddity existed with that collection. There were no Yankees to be found. The reason for that was that every time we opened a pack and saw a Yankee, we took it out to the sidewalk in our backyard for a bizarre, little ritual. In today's world, this might have gotten us sent to a child psychiatrist for serious evaluation. Back then, it was just weird kids doing weird things.

On a hot summer day, Steve and I would place the card on the hot sidewalk and hold a magnifying glass over it. The magnifying glass would then harness the power of the sun to burn holes in the player’s face or body, depending on where we had it pointed.

To this day, I have particularly vivid memories of Reggie Jackson looking as obnoxiously confident as ever... with two holes burned right where his eyes were supposed to be. I shudder to think of where those holes would have ended up if we ever unwrapped a Bucky Dent card. 

The Red Sox took pity on my baseball soul over the next seven years by flat-out stinking. No opportunity for heartbreak existed during that timeframe, because it was impossible to choke while the team was terrible. 

CONGRATULATIONS... Never mind.

1986, however, was a different story.

My Red Sox experienced a year of unexpected success, largely due to the sudden emergence of “Rocket” Roger Clemens. They breezed through the regular season to win their division, and came out on top of a dramatic playoff series against the California (Anaheim) Angels. Then, they came within one out of finishing off the heavily favored New York Mets in game six of the World Series. 

The scoreboard at Shea Stadium, where the Mets played their home games prematurely displayed, “CONGRATULATIONS BOSTON RED SOX.” 

My brother Steve, Dad, and I were all waiting anxiously in front of the television for a final out that never happened. One hit for the Mets led to another, and eventually a wild pitch tied the game. Moments later, Mookie Wilson’s slow roller to first base somehow eluded the grasp of a half-crippled, Bill Buckner. Nonetheless, the winning run scored for the Mets.

Although the Red Sox took a brief lead in the deciding game seven a few days later, it was still a foregone conclusion that the Mets were going to come back to win that game, which they did.

Afterward, Sox third-baseman Wade Boggs was seen crying in the dugout during the Mets on-field celebration. I don’t think I shed any tears at that point, but it was becoming increasingly clear that my Red Sox fandom was never meant to be a rewarding experience for me. 

Cowboy Up

A lot happened between the years 1986 and 2003. I graduated high-school, went to college and began a long, slow process of self-discovery. That’s pretty much what every young person goes through in that timeframe, but I was especially slow at it, remaining a bit naïve and a lot immature until April 30, 1994. That was the day I came home to a message on the answering machine from my sister Sue. She told me to come to the hospital right away, because my dad had a heart attack.

I went to the hospital immediately that day, and stayed with my family until we were finally told to say our goodbyes.

My dad had passed away.

At the time of his passing, I was technically 24 years old, but emotionally, I was more like 16. Until then, my dad had assumed a lot of the responsibility that should have been mine for the last ten or more years.

As a result, I didn’t know what it took to survive in the world. Truthfully, I didn’t even know how to fit in socially. Far too often, I experienced so much social anxiety that it was nearly impossible for me to meet people or show up for job interviews. 

As future Sox third baseman and frank spokesperson Kevin Millar would have said, "It was time for me to cowboy up."

Although it sounds ridiculous, another reason it took me so long to become self-sufficient was that I had an obsessive relationship with baseball. 

I loved the Red Sox, but they never loved me back.

Full disclosure: I stole that sentiment from the movie, Fever Pitch. In fact, watching Jimmy Fallon’s character in that movie seems sadly biographical to my own life.

Despite the let-downs of 1978 and 1986, I carried on with that nonsensical chase for my team to be called champions. It sounds completely stupid in hindsight, but members of Red Sox Nation from that era know exactly what I’m talking about.

Following the Red Sox wasn't just a pastime for me; it was life. My relationship with the local baseball team was toxic enough to stunt my growth as a person. The die-hard in me took over my life. Then, 2003 happened.

Dying Hard

The Red Sox had reached game seven of the American League Championship Series. The winner of this game would move on to the World Series. 

They were once again pitted against their (and my) most-hated rivals, the New York Yankees. Flashbacks of burning holes in the eyes of Reggie Jackson’s baseball card came rushing back into my memory bank. The only difference was that I was 33 years old at this point. Not that burning holes in baseball cards was too childish for me at that age. Remember, maturity was never my strong point.

It was 5-2 in favor of the Red Sox in the bottom of the eighth inning when it fell apart this time. The Yankees tied the game by scoring three times in that inning, before going on to win it in the bottom of the 11^th off the bat of another unlikely hero. This time Aaron bleepin’ Boone delivered the dagger to my baseball heart.

The Break-Up

Something strange happened that night, however. After reliving that game several times in my head over the next few days, I stopped caring about the Red Sox. To put it bluntly, I was breaking up with them.

I was officially done with that relationship. “Honey, it’s not you. It’s me... Actually, in this case it really is much more about you.”

That epiphany wasn’t spurred by bitterness or hatred, not even by a little. Truthfully, I also stopped hating the Yankees.

Some say that the worst thing that can happen to a relationship is indifference. There are those who claim that even hatred can inspire passion, but indifference inspires nothing. That’s how I finally felt about the Red Sox… and the Yankees.

That indifference sparked a wonderful transformation within me. It enabled me to move on. From that experience, I learned that moments of despair can have weirdly positive effects. 

My dad’s passing in 1994 was an unquestionably tragic moment for everyone in my family, especially my mom who lost the love of her life that day. In a weird way, however, it forced me to grow as a person. 

Throughout my lifetime, I’ve wrestled with that realization, feeling guilty for finding the positive in an occurrence of such terrible magnitude.

Even today, while knocking on the door of my 50^th birthday, I miss my dad tremendously. I wasn’t proud of the person I was when he died. That person was too immature to be grateful for any of the hard-working sacrifices he made for me. Now, I’d love for him to share some of the wonderful things that have found me since I broke free from my dysfunctional relationship with baseball.

Since then, I've been able to enjoy a pretty damned good life. I did volunteer work, dedicated more time to friends and family, started playing golf, went back to school, and even began internet dating.

Until then, my prowess on the dating scene was about as successful as the Red Sox chase for a world series victory, meaning there was none.

Living Well

On June 14, 2006 I met my future wife and soulmate, Amy. We dated for exactly one year before we were married at the Ocean Edge Resort in Brewster, MA on Cape Cod. 

On Christmas Eve of 2009, Amy and I adopted our smart, funny, and loving daughter, Madeline.

A few years later, I successfully executed career change by venturing into the world of professional writing. I’ve often been quoted as saying that it was the third best thing I’ve ever done… referring to the two previously mentioned milestones as numbers one and two on the highlight reel of my lifetime’s greatest hits.

At this point, It’s worth mentioning how fate has a sick sense of humor. What happened the very next year after I withdrew my allegiance to the Red Sox?

They won the bleepin’ World Series! 

That's right; they broke the curse of the Bambino by staging one of the greatest comebacks in the history of sports. The team rose from the depths of a 3-0 deficit in the best of seven American League Championship Series, by winning four in a row in dramatic fashion to beat the despised Yankees. Somewhere in New York, I couldn’t help but think an eight-year old boy was burning holes in the baseball cards of David Ortiz and Curt Schilling.

For me, the true beauty of that moment wasn’t in the other-worldly irony of the situation, but in the still present indifference I felt about it all.

The Red Sox had broken my heart many times over the course of my first 33 years on this planet. They provided some of the worst moments of anguish I could have ever experienced.

Then, as soon as I broke up with them, they won it all. But I still didn’t care.

I wasn’t upset that they only won after I declared I would no longer live and die with their successes and failures. Although my closest friends and family seemed to think that it was some sort of ultimate slap in the face, and I must have been crestfallen over it, I wasn’t. 

The God's honest truth is that I was happy for all the people who had waited their entire lives to see that moment. “Maybe now,” I thought, “they could get on with their lives too.”

A human heart operates on its own agenda. If it stops caring, there’s nothing you can do about it. It doesn’t matter if it’s the love of a good friend, the love of a local sports team, or even the love of a significant other. Once the heart has no more capacity for love of someone or something, the relationship is over. In a weird way, that's an incredibly comforting notion, however. 

Maybe it's the result of some sort of self-defense mechanism born into our DNA that stops us from enduring endless pain and suffering. For whatever reason, the heart embraces what it wants, and it repels whatever it doesn't want. It's one of those undeniable truths that goes way beyond rational explanation.

These are my final words regarding this wickedly strange happenstance: “CONGRATULATIONS BOSTON RED SOX. Since we parted ways, you’ve celebrated the triumph of four championship titles, and I’ve experienced more love and life than I ever did before, when our fates seemed so closely tied together. For both of us, the future is bright, as long as we stay apart. Farewell old friend."