A Letter of Apology to Terry Francona

I confess, Tito. I did it. I took the cookie from the before-they-hatch jar. Lock me up. I deserve to get slapped around, Pedro-Zimmer style. I throw myself on the mercy of the Red Sox court. I counted the Angels out. I looked forward to the ALCS.

Did 1919 thru 2003 teach me nothing? Did I glean anything from the 11th inning in Yankee Stadium, Game Seven, 2003? Did Mookie and Buckner impart no wisdom? Shouldn't I know better than to let Fisk and Carbo get my hopes up?

Ellsbury's three-run single should have given me pause. That was my first clue. The last time I saw a guy score from first on a one-bagger was '46, and we all know how that turned out.

So my team won two World Series. Big effin' deal. The Patriots won three Super Bowls, and none of that mattered two weeks ago when yes, that-Chad-Pennington's Dolphins took New England out behind the shed for a good ol' fashioned beating. In Foxboro.

So we beat the Angels twice, in Anaheim. So we had an 11-game, two decade postseason win streak on them. I should have known better. If nothing else, 86 years of heartache and calamity should have taught me that more often than not, you don't win the World Series.

Wallowing in the glory of six major sport championships in seven years tends to go to your head. It's not an excuse, but perhaps it is a realization that another dry spell would be good for Boston. I promise I won't do it again Terry, I'm sorry. Mea Culpa.

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