To Break the Curse

I sat quietly, my head resting on my hands, in the backseat of my father's mini van. I looked down at my shoes. A huge hole in the toe and a few dirt stains glared at me. I looked over to Christina Lorelli. Her shoes were pure and white. They sparkled with the passing streetlights that lined the darkening road. I had been in this position many times before. The year was 2004 and the Red Sox, once again, had made it all the way to the playoffs. Too bad they hadn't won the World Series in 86 years.

Ever since I was a little girl, I had been exposed to America's past time more so than other little girls. While the other little girls were watching shows about fairy princesses and talking turtles, I was watching the Boston Red Sox.

My parents, being natives of Massachusetts, had always been huge Red Sox fans. My father, his father, and probably his father before him, were all freakishly obsessed with their state's team. The Red Sox weren't just a baseball team; they were a member of the family. My family used the Red Sox to separate themselves from the world of computer crashes and car insurance and were able to indulge in a simple game; a simple game that defined the rivalry between our family and the Lorelli family.

My story can start as far back as the year 1920, when the coach of Boston at the time, Harry Frazee, sold George Herman Ruth (Babe Ruth), to the New York Yankees. This marked the beginning of two things. One was the reign of the New York Yankees, who, prior to obtaining Ruth, had never won a World Series and after happily welcoming Ruth to their team, won a total of 26 World Series titles. The other is the beginning of the Curse of the Great Bambino. The Red Sox, after trading Ruth and winning four World Series titles, never won another title, most of the time losing in the seventh game of the series.

As a child, I remember asking, "Dad, why do we still lose? Babe Ruth doesn't play with the Yankees anymore either. Why can't we win?"

"We can win. This could be our year. This could be it."

"Isn't that what you said last year?"

The car slowly pulled into the Lorelli's driveway. The radio began to buzz with static and the announcer's voice faded into it. Christina got out of the car.

"Thank you so much, Mr. Johnson."

"You're welcome."

"Bye Lucy. I hope the Cardinal's don't beat the Red Sox too bad." She shined a sinister smile in my direction, her braces gleaming in the moonlight.

Her family were all New York Yankee fans, and after the Red Sox beat them to go to the World Series, they hard resorted to cheering for the next closest rival to Boston, the Cardinals, who were fighting for the same prize as the Red Sox.

"Okay, Christina. We'll see about that."

The Lorelli family, in all of their rich glory, rubbed the Yankee victory in our faces every year, and every year, there was nothing we could defend ourselves with except for, "Just wait until next year."

And when the next year would come, the Red Sox would have a good lead, but the Yankees would come back somehow in an incredible turnaround, and end up beating our beloved Sox in the seventh game of the World Series.

A few minutes after we pulled away from the Lorelli residence, the game six announcer exclaimed that the Red Sox had won the game 4 to 1. My dad, in excitement, pounded on the steering wheel.

"Yes! Lucy, didn't I tell you this would be the year? Bring it on, game seven!"

Although I too felt excitement from the win, I couldn't help but to remember the past. We would scream and cheer and hope that our team could hear us through the television or radio. We would jump up and down at every moment that gave us even the slightest bit of hope for victory, but we wouldn't win. Our team would go back to their dugouts and try to forget about their mistakes and learn from them and come back the next year. It was a never ending cycle of practice, win, and defeat.

We finally got home and entered the dark house. My mother had fallen asleep on the couch to the game. I wearily walked up the stairs to my bedroom and rested on the soft comforter. All of the sudden, the telephone rang. Startled, I sprung to my feet. My dad answered the phone and I ran down the stairs so see who it was.

"Yes! I agree! Tomorrow night, then. Be here around six so that you can have dinner here. We'll probably just order a pizza." There was a pause. "Sure, bring Christina along. I'm