A Third World Nation
by Baron Von Cocksworth
Perusing the wide world of eBay the other day in search of fake dog poo (you can buy it now for $6.99 ... what a steal!) I was curious as to how much Red Sox World Series tickets were being sold for. Yes, I understood they weren’t going cheap, but at the same time, I didn’t think they’d be as grossly overpriced as they were.
Twenty-four hours before Game 1, with Josh “I-drop-F-bombs-in-my-postgame-press-conference” Beckett set to face Jeff "Look-at-my-Canadian-adam’s apple" Francis, the winning bid for two tickets at Fenway Park ranged from $1,600 to $3,000. What a bunch of bullshit.
The way I see it, there’s three types of people who go to these games: 1) Die-hard, longtime fans who’ve owned season tickets since the smarter George Bush (if that’s not an oxymoron) was in office. 2) Celebrities or politicians who are on constant lookout for the Fox cameramen in hopes of being seen wearing a hat with the home team’s logo. 3) Douchebags who make a grotesque amount of money and don’t mind dropping $3,000 just to say, "I was there!"
This first group, obviously, I have no problem with. Chances are, the season tickets have been a family heirloom for generations, like fine china or the stupid watch my grandfather gave me that I pawned to buy six 30-packs of Keystone Light. I can live with these people.
Of course the celebrities and politicians are going to get the nod, because frankly, celebrities and politicians are just better people…and let’s face it, they deserve it. If I were to be caught giving a blowjob to an Asian transsexual in the front seat of my Bentley on the Sunset Strip, no one would care. But if I were a celebrity, all of a sudden we have a major public relations shitshow on my hands. So take in a ballgame, cocksucker.
This last group, however, I want to just punch collectively in the taint. You know this guy is some fucking prick hotshot Wall Street type – sort of like Richard Gere in Pretty Woman - who rolled up in his BMW decked out in the brand new Josh Beckett jersey he bought at the Yawkey Way Store across the street. He’ll buy the crowd at Cask n’ Flagon a round before heading into the park; meanwhile his wife is doing the downward facing dog with the cabana boy at home while the kids surf YouPorn unsupervised. He sits with his super hot secretary and a few clients, telling fabricated stories about his first time at Fenway Park (when, in all actuality, it was Game 1 of the 2004 World Series …déjà vu). He cheers as though he knows every player’s father, but says, "I think we got a good deal when we traded for Dunston Pedrona."
This man embodies what it means to be a part of Red Sox Nation. Ugh ... the words just make me shudder. I’m old enough to remember a time when this so-called nation didn’t exist. And to be honest, the world was a better place without this addition. USA Today recently published a story that said the Red Sox and their "Nation" were the new "America’s Team." Fuck that. What the Red Sox have is a bunch of pricks who got shin splints sprinting to jump on the bandwagon following the whole "Cowboy Up!" fiasco.
One prime, albeit sexist, example are the stupid fucking girls who wear pink Red Sox hats and think Manny Ramirez and Big Papi are cute. Now I’m not in the business of judging the cuteness of guys, but I can tell you that these guys aren’t in any way, shape or form, cute. Things live in Manny’s hair. If he couldn’t hit 700-foot home runs, Papi would be ridiculed unmercifully for his chesticles a.k.a man boobs.
But because they wear that red and white uniform, girls would be willing to give themselves a Dirty Sanchez in their presence.
How do these people become part of Red Sox Nation? I mean, if you were going to start a nation, would you let assholes like this inside the border? That’s what Canada is for, buddy.
Now I’m not saying that I’m a die-hard Sox fan, but I can at least recall moments and remember being in attendance at Fenway Park prior to 2003. In 1999, when the Sox advanced to the ALCS by beating the Indians in Game 5 at Jacobs Field, I was in Burlington, VT with my college girlfriend. Instead of seeing the bright lights and toothless residents of the state’s capital, I stayed in the hotel room and watched an injured Pedro completely dominate and baffle Cleveland hitters over the final six innings in a come-from-behind win.
Ask 95 percent of Red Sox Nation if they know the names Jody Reed, Tim Naehring, Scott Cooper, John Valentin or Troy O’Leary and you’ll get a million different answers. Then again, ask 95 percent of the population in the United States if they know they names John Adams, Richard Stockton or Herbie Hancock, and you may get the same amount of answers. I guess all nations have ignorant residents.
Anyway, someone needs to step up and do something about this. How about the President of Red Sox Nation? (This is a whole other rant in of itself, one, though, for another day). I think Jerry Remy needs to start taking names and kicking ass. "Who’s Nick Esasky? Get the fuck out! Don’t know what Morgan’s Magic is? Go like the Devil Rays!"
Another name for Red Sox Nation is Scarlet Fever ... Ironically, both are diseases.
