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I feel a need to post this. I don't know if anyone will read it or not...it's OK if they don't. It's just a little story to explain what the Red Sox mean to me,and why this hurts so much. On April 20,1912,my grandfather was at the first opening day at Fenway Park. In 1918,right after the end of the World Series,my father was born. All through my childhood,he always had season tickets for all the home games. The excitement and wonder of going to games with my Dad will be some of my very best memories till the last day of my life. He waited his entire life to see the Sox win the Series,and never did. We've come close,but never quite got there. I moved away from New England for 12 years and moved to the Florida Keys. Every year,I came back up for a couple of games. I was here when the Sox had their worst loss at home(22-2,I believe),on the day that the ultimate Sox fan,Lib Dooley died. Even then,I stayed till the end. This year...once again,for the first time in years,I truly believed. I also believed that Pedro was done after the 7th..but what do I know? I just wanted to share the story of one Red Sox fan(there are many such stories)to help those that don't understand what it means to us. I'm sorry if this sounds maudlin,and I'm sure that next year,as always,hope will rear it's tantalizing head again. Congratulations again to all you Yankee fans:)
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