Special to Page 2
Let's start with a strained pop culture reference.
After all, this is Page 2. In the HBO series "Curb Your Enthusiasm," there is an episode in which Susie offers Larry David a tour of her new home.
David, of course, declines, infuriating Susie in the process:
SUSIE: So come on, I'll give you the tour.
LARRY: Oh, you know what, that's OK. I get it.
SUSIE: What do you mean?
|All Sox, all the time|
Too much Red Sox? Page 2 has some thoughts:
Schoenfield: 86 reasons to hate the Sox
If Monday's banner-raising festivities weren't enough, here are 86 more reasons to hate the Red Sox.
Caple: Why not us?
The Red Sox aren't the only franchise to suffer pain. Jim Caple has the stories of other teams waiting for a World Series win.
LARRY: Well, you know, it's ... bedrooms, bathrooms, I get it. I see it! It's beautiful. It's great.
SUSIE: You don't want a tour?
LARRY: Eh. You don't need to walk me around.
SUSIE: All right, get the [expletive] out of my house, OK, Larry? Just get the [expletive] out right now!
Beautiful. Great. No need to walk me around. For countless sports fans who didn't grow up in New England -- myself included -- David might as well have been talking about Red Sox Nation.
It's ... longtime suffering. The curse. The comeback, the bloody sock, fathers crying with sons. All that facial hair. Oh, and you won. You finally won. Anything is possible! We get it.
Now, can you please leave the rest of us alone?
Like for another 86 years?
Really, it's too much. And that's without mentioning Jimmy Fallon, let alone Ben Affleck. Though it's difficult to pinpoint the exact moment when the Red Sox went from plucky underdogs to suffocating, omnipresent cultural pollutant -- possibly when "Fever Pitch" hit theaters; probably when Johnny Damon's shirtless vacation photos appeared on Page 3 -- the fact of the matter remains. No mas. A thousand times no mas.
Ever since last fall, the "Boston wins!" phenomenon has stumbled around in the manner of a drunken sailor on shore leave, pawing and slobbering over anything that crosses its path. To a point, that's OK. Eighty-six years is a long time at sea. Anyone involved with the Red Sox has plenty of steam to blow off.
But when said steam ends up in everyone else's faces, well, that's a bit annoying. And by "a bit," we mean a lot.
To put things another way: If President Bush appeared at Fenway Park, proclaimed "ich bin ein Red Soxen" and announced a 10-year crash program to reanimate Ted Williams' frozen head before the terrorists beat us to it ... well, we wouldn't be surprised.
Of course, some might suggest treating Boston like offensive pornography, or any regular series on MTV: If you don't like it, don't watch it. And certainly don't set your TiVo to record "Trippin." Fair enough, except for one little detail.
It's downright impossible to avoid the Red Sox.
Go to a bookstore? There's Damon's aptly titled "Idiot," along with a half-dozen quick-and-disposable "What a year!" tomes.
(Really, how many "inside stories" of the most improbable championship season in sports history can there be?)