Word: sox
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Dates: during 1980-1989
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...customs of manhood, but copiously. Then, alone again in a hotel room (this time in D.C.), I had to watch when Henderson, reaching for immortality, apparently won the Series with another homer in the 10th inning of game six, and, with two outs and nobody on, the Sox came--not once but four times--within a micron of taking it all, only to blow it once again...
...Mets' scoreboard had already flashed "congratulations Red Sox." NBC had already named Barrett player of the game, and Hurst the Series MVP. But the Sox knew better. They had peeled the aluminum off the champagne bottles, but they hadn't popped the corks. You all know what the great Yogi Berra says about when it's over--and when...
What does it all mean? (We academics do have to ask that question after all.) Emily Vermeule, our great classicist and noted Sox fan, argued in 1978 that defeat had been inevitable because the Sox's epic matches the literary form of classical tragedy, where the hero must...
...held and abandoned my hypotheses in this vein during post-season play. After Henderson's resurrection in playoff game five, I actually dared to suggest that God was a Red Sox fan. After the most providential rain delay in recent sports history, between games six and seven of the Series, I decided that God cannot influence human actions, but still controls the weather. After the last game, I realized that He must hate the DH rule so much that He only favors the Sox within the American League. (I must, of course, now also entertain the possibility that either...
...finale was too typical--an early Sox lead, eroded near the end, a late Sox surge, almost but not quite enough. Ethan cried when it was all over--and this was only his first time. I tried to console him, but ended up joining him. It's a puzzle, isn't it? I don't know why grown men care so deeply about something that neither kills, nor starves, nor maims, nor even scratches in our world of woe. I don't know why we care so much, but I'm mighty glad that...