Children in the hands of an angry God
I know the rest of you are sick to death of the Red Sox, and the hyperbole that attends them, but you cannot imagine what this feels like. You have not been crushed by the annual cycle of predestined failure and pathetic optimism for your whole life. You did not wear your Sox headband to the Symphony, like Isabella Stewart Gardner. The image of the damned souls in Ms. Shea's first period Latin class 18 years ago yesterday is not seared into your brain. You have not borne an ever-longer genealogy of unfulfilled deaths.
Nor should you have. I admit, it's a little much. And now it's over, and you can forget it. So, I suppose, must we. But how? I'm at a loss. Last night, all my dad could say was: "I can't believe it." Neither can I.