I'm a long-time citizen of Red Sox Nation. My earliest baseball memories are of the end of Ted Williams' career. I watched Lonborg try to pitch on two days rest back in 67. I went from the thrill of Fisk's 'body English' in the twelfth inning to the agony of one too many of Bill Lee's changeups in 75. And then there was Bill Buckner in 86. 'Nuff said.
On the night the Yankees eliminated the Twins, while the dog had me out for a walk in the back yard, I looked up at the sky and saw a strange looking cloud. It looked like a barrel-chested man with spindly legs, and it was headed east toward Boston. Three games later, I was convinced he had been riding a broom. But when the Yanks brought in Bucky Dent to throw out the first ball of the seventh game, I knew we had 'em.
There is a fundamental difference between Sox fans and Pats fans. Pats fans expect the team to make the big play when the money's on the line. Sox fans are just waiting for the other shoe to drop.
How can we say the curse is lifted if we're still quoting Yogi? As long as it aint over til it's over, or til the fat lady sings, you'll be able to tell the Sox fan by the deer-in-the-headlights look on his face.