Just once I’d love to see the Sweet Caroline cam catch a glimpse of someone smoking a joint, or sniffing coke off the guard rail. In the least, a good old nose pick or butt sniff will do.
Several healthcare professionals have warned that I'll have a heart-attack unless I seek help for my psychotic hatred of pro sports.
As such, since I work less than one block from Fenway Park, I decided that the only remedy is all-out assimilation. During the 2010 season I hit 43 home games, and have since been referring to the Sox as "we" and engaging in all sorts of other foreign rituals.
Stick with me through my struggle to become a Sox fan, as I force-chug hella beer to numb myself like strippers do before they hit the pole. This is no joke. This is for survival, and for my book, "How I Learned to Stop Worrying & Love the Sox," which drops in 2012.
-Chris Faraone
Contacts
Twitter @SoxMobsterEmail: SoxMobster@gmail.com
Home Runs from the Archive
About This ProjectThe Sox Mobster's First Beef
I Was the Guy at the Family Function Watching Baseball
How Old is Too Old to Bring Your Glove to the Game?
Do the Yankees Still Suck?
An Example of When Fan Shit Gets out of Control
My First Game - and "We" Won
Baseball Fans Don't Vote
The Homeys
Boston Sports Then and NowFire Brand of the American League
Boston Sports Media Watch
Sports Girl Kat
Six States, One Blog
Sox Space News
I Blacked Out
The Boston Phoenix
Supah Fans
Dan Sullivan Sports Management
