This weekend, I became a sports fan. 

My motivations were not noble.  My new-found sports enthusiasm was not related to any affinity with Cleveland but rather an animosity I am still harvesting with Boston.  I am a petty individual. 

When I would (gross, apparently, we were this couple) question the quantity of The Kid’s love, he would say he loved me more than the Red Sox.  I would laugh and assure him that it was ok, I could be second on the list.  Usually, he’d still give me the number one spot; other times, to make me smile and roll my eyes, we’d tie. 

Like any born-and-bred Bostonian, he breathes baseball. 

My college summers always contained a mid-season visit to MA when Red-Sox Nation was in full, uproarious swing.  The emphasis on baseball continually astounded me, whether that be the old men carrying around the AM radios that broadcast, loudly and with static, the day game or his Nana debating the merits and statistics of Coco Crisp.  My ethnocentric Midwestern roots always found charm in the cultural difference; even now, I have to stifle a patronizing so cute

My apologizes to his Nana and the old men outfitted in shorts, tall socks, and an AM radio …  but I wanted them to lose so badly.

God hates me.  Not only did they win, but they won by a lot.  Both games.  God, I am sure, was highly amused. 

I hate sports.