Those of us outside the Nation do it all the time, but it’s not often you see it on the pages of the Boston Globe. Take it away Tom Scocca!
What the Red Sox most resemble, here in 2009, is some unholy amalgamation of the postwar Brooklyn Dodgers and the Grateful Dead. The Dodgers have been mythologized by fans like Doris Kearns Goodwin – not by chance, a vocal member of Red Sox Nation – as lovable underdogs, but in their day they were neither underdogs nor lovable. They were simply the second-biggest bullies in baseball, a rich and successful franchise that could be counted on to beat up the rest of the National League and to get beaten up on by the Yankees.
Red Sox fans don’t even wait for the passage of time to worship the mysteries of their own team. The blue-shirted, pink-hatted crowds descend on other cities’ ballparks for a mass smug-in whenever the Sox are on the road . . . Like Deadheads, they’re indifferent to what city they’ve trailed into, so long as they’re bathing in the presence of like-minded worshippers: Yoooook! Duuuuude!
Rebuttals and concurrences can be submitted in the comments.