by Cathy A Montville

Created on: August 04, 2008   Last Updated: September 30, 2011

My entire family is addicted to New England sports. This is a true and pathetic story, of the intensity of our passion for sports: Red Sox baseball indisputably, and Patriots' football, manically. We also embrace The Boston Bruins, and The Celtics. It’s a somewhat unhealthy, mildly disturbing allegiance.

Blame Dad

If the day ever comes when I feel I should inquire about therapy for my addiction, I have all the bases covered. Did you see that? Right out of the gate, I slip something in here about baseball, not to mention horse racing, which is another story all by itself.

My dad's head will be the first on the psychotherapy chopping block. Regardless of the fact, the man has been dead 39 years, I would charge him with getting the ball rolling (there I go again) on four Massachusetts generations of nuts. Sport's nuts I mean.

My husband's head would be next. My dad may have started it, but my husband put the final touches on the sport monster I have not only become, but also passed on to two of the generations myself.

Tough as Nails

My father played football, in the 40s, for his small Massachusetts high school…back when the guys wore leather helmets, and what almost looked like riding pants. We have a worn photo from the time, and his children treasure it. He was of Polish heritage and average in stature.

He was ‘strong as a bull'  my mother use to say. My dad was a Purple Heart WWII veteran. Proudly, he marched in the Memorial Day parade every single May until he died. He was a no-nonsense kind of man. He was also a passionate hunter, and he loved sports.

My dad loved baseball. Here in the country in central Massachusetts he managed and coached a Little League team in the late 1950s and early 60s. My brother played ball in Little League, but Dad showed no favoritism. My brother was not on his team. As I said, he was a no-nonsense person.

My brother had to make a team on his own. A little harsh you think. I am talking about a man who was shot in the war. Heck, my other brother was a water boy and he, too, dished out water to another team…not my father’s team. That’s how it was back then. We did not question authority.

My Husband as my Coach

When I met my husband, I was the fan of baseball; he was all about football and basketball. It would turn out to be a match made in heaven. Baseball grew (and grew) on him, and I began my football education.

I always liked football, but knew nothing about rules and regulations. It

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