The instant the ball rolled between Bill Buckner's legs New England broke into a collective moan. Mets fans uncontrollably squealed with glee. Then it was over and there was only silence. Local taverns packed with people watching Game 6 of the 1986 World Series suddenly filled with malice and fans walked away leaving money on the table. Boston's long awaited world championship was there—and then it was gone. All that remained for Red Sox fans was the grim certainty of an inevitable loss in Game 7 and more proof that this was not the year.

The Red Sox didn't have a chance. This team and its fans didn't recover from such defeats. Never had and never would.*¹

Sports fans have a tendency to get attached to the games, the players, the seasons. The players, larger than life, are personal heroes; they pull the curtain back on greatness and let their fans play a part. But in Boston, that was not to be. For many years, whatever momentary hope Red Sox fans may have had—thinking perhaps this time they could win—was eclipsed by their team's continual string of losses. It was the conversation in their neighborhoods, their schools, their families, even among their politicians. They knew they'd blown it in 1918 by trading Babe Ruth to the Yankees, and since then they just couldn't get back to the top. The state of affairs for Red Sox fans was a hard, cold reality—the way it was. The context hovering over them was that “the Sox” weren't winners. (Luckily, I was a Yankees fan.)