Musings by Dick Flavin - Pennant Fever

Have you caught the bug that's been going around?
It's called pennant fever, it's all over town.
If you don't have it yet, you probably will;
It's highly contagious and real hard to kill.
Here are the symptoms, so you'll be aware;
It makes you feel giddy, like walking on air. You dream funny dreams about all kinds of things,
Like games in October, and trophies and rings.
Don't ask me to treat it. That's too high a barrier.
Besides, if you must know, I am a carrier.
There's only one cure, and it's pretty bruising.
A tough pill to take, it's called too much losing.
That stops the fever, but here's the transgression;
The after effects could lead to depression.
If you should come down with it try to be strong,
And hope that the fever lasts all season long.

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I am as excited as all get out about the coming baseball season. The Red Sox have pitching; they have hitting; they have defense. What could go wrong?

There is one tiny detail yet to be worked out. They still have to play the games. Spring training hasn't even begun yet, let alone the regular season. That doesn't bother me one bit. I'm so bullish about 2017 that I've put a hold on all engagements scheduled for October. (The fact that I have no engagements scheduled for October is beside the point. Hell, I don't even have engagements scheduled for February.) The Red Sox are as inevitable as Hillary...strike that. Let's just say that I feel pretty good about their chances.

I'm more confident about this season than I have been  at any time since, well, since 2011. You remember 2011, don't you? What? Your still in therapy? Aren't we all.

2011 was the year we were supposed to have the best team in baseball because in the off-season we had acquired both Adrian Gonzalez and Carl Crawford. The first sign of possible troube came when it turned out we hadn't signed Carl Crawford at all, but, through a technical glitch, had signed his twin sister, Carol Crawford, who wasn't nearly as good. Still, the Red Sox did have the best team in baseball – for five months.

Then September struck.

Oh, the devestation! Fried chicken from the local Popeye's in the clubhouse – while the games were still going on! Reports of drinking beer in the dugout! And loss after loss after loss. Until, at the very end, nothing remained of the season but a cold, blood-stained carcass. And a few half-eaten chicken wings.

At least it gave me something to write about.

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