Shaun Connolly
As an agnostic Red Sox fan, it has been a delight to watch them tear up the major leagues this second half of the season. Also, as an agnostic Red Sox fan, it has been hilarious to remember the Fenway Faithful chanting “Sell the Team” not two months ago. It was not long ago every hot-taker in the country was talking about what a buffoon Craig Breslow was and how evil and greedy John Henry can be. Now, newborns are receiving names like Payton and Rafaela.
Fandom is a wild roller coaster that bears no logical reasoning. It is the closest thing we have to good old-fashioned tribalism. Most folks are fans because of location: They love the region they are in and the team that is closest to their mailbox. It can be familial as well. I am a Mets fan because of the pull of my cousins and uncles (and probably my love of being obstinate).
I am, as of writing this, a proud father of a newborn girl. I have already tricked my son into accepting the mental disease of Mets fandom. He also loves Liverpool FC, and I feel bad about that disappointment too, though we have seen a lot of success lately. I hope my daughter takes a liking to sports, too. Through living room osmosis, I have convinced my wife to enjoy a Mets game, or go to Boland’s at 9 a.m. for Liverpool, or even scream for the World Cup.
It is a burden I will wear on my sleeve, knowing full well that I will watch my kids potentially cry at some point over a competition. I will be crying with them, and there is comfort in that. There are so many factors of parenting where you question nearly every decision you make. Fandom, surprisingly, isn’t one of them.