Being A New England Fan SUCKS And Here’s Why…

Joey Boats

DISCLAIMER: This is a reblog, but it holds more weight now than ever. If you read this site regularly, I’m sure you’re also a fan of that Barstool site as well. That said, I’m sure you’ve seen Feitelberg’s article that basically said the same thing as I have below. For the RECORD, I published this on my personal blog 2 days before his was originally posted. Then, recently, he decided to his update his original blog and I’m shamelessly stealing that idea. God giveth, God taketh away…

DISCLAIMER (X2): Just pretend that, instead of me talking about how the whole Red Sox World Series run sucked, I’m talking about how much this Super Bowl run sucked. It’s a rinse and repeat type thing here in New England, anyway…

Alright, so if you’re a sports fan in any capacity, your eyes were locked on Boston at one point or another last night. Between the Red Sox and the Patriots, last night was slated to be one of the biggest nights in a LONG time (roughly 2 months or so). Both teams won, but let me start by saying that this type of stuff is why New England has the hardest working fan base on the planet.

Everyone’s going to scoff and tell me to shut up, but allow be to be 100% sincere for a minute. Just listen before you smear your tar and toss your feathers because I’m only going to say this once: being a New England sports fan sucks, and nights like last night authenticates that assertion.

All of my friends say I’m crazy but that’s because they’re cowards who root for teams that haven’t won since Millard Filmore took office. They don’t know what the air smells like on the top of the mountain. They don’t know what it’s like to rub elbows with clouds. They don’t know what it’s like to perch atop the hill of battle and scan across the blood-soaked pastures, only to realize the victory flag you fought so desperately to obtain is now an obligation, rather than an aspiration.

In other words, it sucks. Last night should’ve been an escape from the tribulations of life. Checking the sports section this morning should’ve been a source of revelry. When I strolled into Dunkin’ at 7 AM, I should’ve been inspired to entertain a more extravagant coffee order (perhaps pumpkin-related), but no…

No sugar. No Cream. No flavored syrup. Just black.

And those are the things other fanbases don’t experience. They see the primetime exposure, they see the rings, they see the banners, they see the busts of former athletes flooding the hallways of Canton/Cooperstown/Springfield/Ontario, and they see the seemingly unwavering regional confidence; however, distant eyes are blind to the whole truth.

I was riding the train into Boston the other day and something caught my eye. The Red Line made one of its routine stops at Quincy Adams and an older gentleman boarded carrying a red 5-quart cooler—which I presume housed the contents of his lunch for the day—and sat down directly across from me.

He wore steel-toe boots, mud-spattered jeans, and a Carhartt thermal lined jacket that desperately struggled to conceal a neon orange shirt. Scrolling through an iPhone 4, his weathered hands illustrated a long life of rigorous, yet integrity-driven manual labor.

Seemingly everything about this gentleman’s appearance exemplified hardship except for his eyes, which looked like that of a toddler’s—innocent, content, and unassuming. As I glanced above, I noticed he was wearing a hat commemorating the Toronto Blue Jays 2016 American League Divisional Championship and it all made sense. The eyes became clear…

That gentleman has no idea what it’s like to expect greatness; therefore, he has no barometer for it. He has no idea what it’s like to debate benching the greatest quarterback in the history of football after a 2-2 start. He has no idea what it’s like to purchase AFC Championship tickets in August. He has no idea what it’s like to spend your night abusing the “last” button on your TV remote because two of your teams are currently entwined in a battle for championship vindication.

And that’s the difference. Every other fanbase can hurl their stones but just remember the grass, although greener, requires a remarkable amount of maintenance. Losing for those in New England is like crashing a new BMW that your parents bought you for your sixteenth birthday—it’s wildly unfortunate and those who went through high school without a set of wheels just wouldn’t understand it…

– Joey Boats (@joey_boats)

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