Most (normal) people watch sports as a social activity. They gather with their friends at someone’s house with a bowl of chips and salsa, or at some bar with a pitcher of beer. And for the most part, in this sense I am one of the normal people.
But when it comes to the Red Sox, I have no trouble at all watching the games in an empty room by myself. Even the playoffs. Now, I don’t particularly mind having other people around (if it’s the right people it’s nice), but if the company of others is going to cause me any distractions, even simple small talk, forget it.
I think that’s why I particularly enjoyed the latest entry from one of my favorite Red Sox blogs, The House That Dewey Built:
On a side note, I’m going to apologize for my lack of coverage of these ALCS games. My main problem is this: when it comes to the Boston Red Sox, I’m a fan first and a writer second. These last two games have been so putrid, so revolting, that the act of conjuring up a memory of a single inning will give me polio. If I try to write about even a minute detail, I will swallow my tongue and choke to death. You want to know how I watch these games? I mute the TV, turn off the lights, and sit in silence. I ignore the reassurances and pleading of friends and loved ones, focusing solely on the unforgiving screen in front of me. The only sensory stimulation I allow myself are the colors. Beautiful, horrifying colors. It’s a sight that might be amusing to some, frightening to others, but sad to most.