by Armen Changelian

Created on: May 01, 2009

Somewhere in the streets, the faint echo of a maddening crowd is heard. The final pitch has crossed the plate, and Fenway has erupted. A torrent of emotions pours onto the field, spilling over the Green Monster and out onto the streets of Boston. It's instinctive, uncontrollable, and indescribable, and perhaps the fact that so few people can put their allegiance as a Red Sox fan into words is what makes this particular clubhouse so tantalizingly fascinating.

There is more than one brand of Red Sox fan. There is the pre-2004 generation: the infinitely tortured souls who can finally rest easy and die happy. They have made it to the Promised Land; they have lived in a world where the Boston Red Sox are World Series champions, and they are content. Then there is the post-2004 generation: those who know a drought when they see one but have never truly been thirsty. Since 2004, they have known nothing but victory and superiority, and their craving for more can never be satisfied.

I admit I am of the younger generation. In fact, I came into my prime as a Sox fan just prior to the 2004 season (deep down, I like to believe that my contribution to the fan base that year was what finally broke the curse). From that year on, I observed the transition of Red Sox Nation from a beleaguered clan of cursed die-hards to an overflowing bandwagon of the "new generation." Somewhere below the superficial surface, however, the old die-hards remain, sitting, watching, and wondering how it suddenly got so crowded.

This is the burden and the blessing of the Fenway Faithful a life that combines the tortured tradition of the past with a brave new outlook on the future. We cringe every time we relive Buckner's unforgivable sin, as the ball squirts between his legs and we are forced to lament the loss of what could have been; then we rise to our feet as Ellsbury steals home right under the nose of our pinstriped nemesis, reigniting our faith in the dynasty we've always wanted.

It is this combination that simultaneously warms and rips apart the heart of every true Boston fan. We want to know the pain of the past so that we may fully appreciate the blessing of the present. We want to remain the underdogs, held within the crushing grip of the Evil Yankee Empire, only to miraculously escape at the last minute, victorious once again. We want to win, but only up to a point, because eventually, we find ourselves morphing into the very team we have despised for so long. The rivalry, too, is what truly defines the Red Sox experience. When ordinary April matchups feel like fiery playoff battles and when fiery playoff battles feel like Judgment Day, any man with a pulse knows that the Sox-Yanks blood feud is for real. It is a relationship defined by unconditional hatred as well as strange mutual respect a relationship that no other fan base can lay claim to.

I cannot even begin to speculate what life as an Indians fan, Angels fan, or Phillies fan must be like, but in contrast, the fact that so much of the baseball community has at least some level of respect and understanding of what it means to don the Boston cap is certainly a powerful testament. When Fenway spills over the brim, as it does so often, words no longer seem necessary. The fathers and sons and mothers and daughters simply stand and applaud.

And they know it's not just a baseball game.

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