This Broad Is
8.21.02: Rooting for the Red
Sox is the sports fan equivalent of dating an alcoholic stripper.
Sure, she's great to look at and built for sex, but, buddy,
she's gonna hurt you. To be fair, however, an exotic dancer with a drinking
problem is still probably more reliable than the chokers who don those gorgeous
scarlet and white uniforms in the Fens. Brandi is about five times more likely
to remember to pick you up at the bus station than any given Red Sox player is
to deliver a clutch act - hit, catch or pitch - at an important moment in a
On paper, the Sox are a 38-24-36 knockout, and when you
compare her lineup to others around the league, you can't believe your good
fortune at being hooked up with such a babe. But then they sleepwalk through
another one-run loss and you realize the Sox are just so much silicone and
saline and - in one player's case - a bad dye job.
Still, you've put so much effort into this frickin'
relationship and you want to be there on the outside chance that she straightens
out and cleans up. After all, she does have a heart of gold and, when she's not
drinking, her disposition is really quite sweet. And that body. Oh, man. That
stomach, tan and flat. Those legs, tapering into those pumps, calves toned from
all those hours on her feet. Good God, you're not made of stone. Only a fool
would even consider kicking her to the curb.
And so it goes with the Sox. That fleet All-Star
centerfielder. The Hall-of-Fame shortstop. The slugger who once drove in 165
runs in 147 games. The two dominant starting pitchers. Any fan could be forgiven
his incontinence, his inability to say no, to simply walk away from this
But this chick is bad news. Not only does she embarrass you
at Trivial Pursuit with your family at Christmas, she goes into your wallet
without asking, lies chronically and scratches your face and neck every time she
has too much to drink, which is every time she drinks. Then when you go over to
her place to reconcile, you'll see your best friend's motorcycle parked outside
her apartment at 3 a.m.
Is there anyone who cares about the Red Sox who does not feel
horribly betrayed by this heartless, gutless sham of a team? A team that night
after night after night figures out through some cosmic calculus precisely what
it takes to lose. Precisely what it takes to make you miserable. They almost
seem to thrive on it. As if a casual approach to losing is a sign of
Which leaves you with no choice: you have to dump the
stripper. For your own self-preservation, you must separate from this unfeeling
sociopath. I'm not saying it's gonna be easy. I mean, Orpheus couldn't
lead Eurydice out of the underworld without looking back, and she had small
breasts and a flat ass.
But no matter how seductively beautiful this siren is - no
matter how sexy the team ERA or team BA - she ain't worth it. The Red Sox do not
deserve, nor - if their effort is any indication - do they particularly want
your affection. You must walk away, or, at the very least, let them walk away
Here's hoping the strike lasts until these tin men are too
old and gray to tempt any other chumps with their $115 million looks. Cuz, it's