Traumatic Sports Syndrome


By rooting Emmet

All right. It was the greatest day in New England sports history. I missed all the good stuff. Are you happy now?
It’s true. I was upset at all the dropped passes from Mr. Tom Brady. I could not watch the Sunday Patriots game any more. I changed the channel and missed the Brady touchdown in the last five seconds to something called Kenbrell Thompkins, which beat the previously unbeaten New Orleans Saints
It’s true. A few hours later on that Fateful Sunday, I was so frustrated at the strikeouts that I turned off the Red Sox and went to bed. At that point in the first two games the Red Sox had exactly three scattered hits, no runs and 30 strikeouts. Did you see that? Thirty strikeouts. It was like seeing your children beaten up by the neighborhood bully.
I am a victim. I could not take any more. I call it PTSS. Post Traumatic Sports Syndrome.
. I was born a long home run from Fenway Park and used to take the bus to the park and pay 50 cents (honest to God) for a bleacher seat. The PTSD started early with Yogi Berra. I don’t know how many times the Yankee catcher hit a late-inning home run to ruin my summer evening during my tender youth. I was there, watching for Bucky (you know) Dent hitting that pop gun home run. I was there when Aaron Boone hit that home run of a lollypop pitch from Tim Wakefield. I was there for Mookie Wilson dancing with Bill Buckner. I was there when St. Pedro Martinez was left in for one inning too many Don’t tell me.
I was there for the season after season when skinny Joe Namath would blast the Patriots twice a year. I saw Patriots “home games” in Harvard Stadium, Fenway Park and Braves Field. I was there, watching for the 1976 phantom “roughing the passer” call against Kenny Stabler by referee Ben Dreith, a drinking buddy of Raider’s owner Al Davis. I was here to see Pats Quarterback Jim Plunkett almost beaten to death until he was finally traded to the Raiders and won a Super Bowl. I was watching in 1963 when the Chargers beat the Patriots 51-10 in a playoff game. I was there when the Chicago Bears assaulted the Patriots in Super Bowl XX by a 46-10 score. It wasn’t really that close.Need I say….Eli?
So don’t tell me.
It’s not only PTSS, it’s the Twomey hex. The Twomeys were my mother’s clan from Ballyvourney. Some say they were run out of town for sheep stealing. Some say they aggravated a local leprechaun. But since their emigration they have been hampered by unusually bad luck. It is our calling card. When I bought land in Florida and lost my t-shirt, my very wise cousin Jerome said. “You thought you were going to make money on Land? You are a Twomey.”
When I used to take those trolley rides to Fenway, my sainted mother would say on my return, “I don’t know why you go to those games. They always lose when you go.” Now I ask you, would Mrs. Cleaver have asked that of The Beav? I developed a complex over the years, to the point that I would skip attending or even watching big games in order to let the Sox or the Pats play, free from the Twomey curse. It worked more often than you would think.
I have taken to changing the station in a difficult situation. Sometimes I just fall asleep when the damned baseball games last past midnight. Often I turn on WFAN on my iPod in the middle of the night to get the final score. If the Red Sox or the Patriots win, I have done my job. I have considered approaching both teams for a small stipend to ignore them, at least for crucial games.
All of this goes to explain my actions on Miraculous Sunday, when I missed the Big Papi home run and the Brady touchdown. I did it all for you, sports fans.
You’re welcome.