Mom, Cynthia Mason, on the court with “Splendid Splinter” Ted Williams.

By Susan Dewey

May 2004 – I’m not sure when I stopped being a reasonable person and became a die-hard Red Sox fan.

I think it all started with my mother who loved the Red Sox, which was sometimes tough since my family lived in southern Connecticut — hardcore New York Yankees country. We moved to Westport (Martha Stewart’s hometown) from Massachusetts when I was 10. I couldn’t believe how many people had swimming pools — especially in a town with nice beaches on the Long Island Sound — and how many people teased me because I talked funny.

My missing “R’s” were the real thing. Not like Curt Schilling’s in the recent Dunkin Donuts ad on TV, although you have to like any professional athlete who laughs at himself these days. It was hard having people make fun of the way you talked. It was even harder admitting that your parents were Red Sox fans.

The first time I became aware of Red Sox mania was in 1967 when just about everyone in the Massachusetts town where we spent the summer seemed to have a transistor radio attached to their ear whenever a game was on. It was the year of the team’s so-called “Impossible Dream” season.

In the 37 seasons since, that dream still seems impossible. Especially after last season. But like any Red Sox fan who just wants to forget the past, I’m getting ahead of myself.

In the 1975 World Series, I thought my mother — usually a calm woman with nice Boston mannahs, gave such a shriek when Carlton Fisk hit his famous Game 6 home run — his arms waving, willing the ball fair — that those not in the room thought our house had been broken into.

It was a thrilling moment — and for a few seconds, we believed, maybe, just maybe….until game 7, which of course the Sox lost to the ruthless Cincinnati Reds powered by Charlie Hustle himself, third-baseman, Pete Rose.

It was a painful moment that I shared with my boyfriend — also a dyed-in-the-wool Sox fan from Massachusetts. After that our relationship grew stronger as we suffered together through season after season of Red Sox disappointments. There was never any doubt that we would marry each other — true Red Sox fans couldn’t possibly live with say a Florida Marlins fan or an Arizona Diamondbacks fan. This is New England after all and like our Puritan ancestors, deep down we believe that you have to suffer to develop true character.

I have to admit that for one brief, delirious baseball season we cheered for — I am almost ashamed now to admit it — the Philadelphia Phillies. We were living in the City of Brotherly love in 1980 when the Phillies won the World Series, behind the bat of none other than (Mom, please forgive me!) that shifty character, Pete Rose. It was just so much fun being on the winning side for once. Still in our hearts we knew that this was just a frivolous, off-base moment.

And then there was 1986. Is there a Red Sox fan anywhere who can talk about that season without still wanting to weep? I can’t remember anything else about the year 1986 — not a single thing. It’s as if that heart-breaking World Series loss to the (God, not another New York team!) Mets was so painful that it wiped out an entire year of living.

Maybe that was the moment when I stopped being rational and crossed over into Red Sox mania. To this very day, I cannot stand to watch re-runs of that fateful game 6, the ball dribbling down first base between Bill Buckner’s….I will spare other Sox fans the pain.

That night in 1986 our two young children became Red Sox fans. In amazement, they watched their parents and a roomful of adults reduced to tears by a little white ball on a baseball field. Good New Englanders, we made sure they learned young that nothing in life comes easy.

Since then, other teams with flashy names like the Diamondbacks have appeared to win it all without even really trying, but in our family we know those wins don’t really count. Every one knows that the very best, the most significant, the single greatest baseball moment of all time will be when the Red Sox win the World Series.

We came so close last year. In complete despair after Aaron Boone (the son, by the way of the Phillies catcher, Bob Boone, who caught our hearts in 1980s – we knew God would pay us back for cheering for a team other than the Red Sox) blasted a truly magical season (in New York, of course) to bits, I told my husband and my son that I would never watch another Red Sox game.

That was until the very first week of spring training this March, when I sat with my husband in the Fort Myers, Florida sunshine at a Red Sox game and started to believe once again that this will be the year the Red Sox win the World Series.

And when that happens, I can’t wait to hear my mother cheer… or should I say, chee-ah.