Game 7, World Series, 1986: I remember my Papou being really sad and having tears in his eyes and not really understanding.  I was only 5 at the time.  Papou died in early 1992 and never did get to see the Sox or his most beloved Pats win it all. 

Game 7, ALCS, 2003: I cried.  Utter devastation.  Early next morning I hopped aboard a Greyhound from Albany to Boston.  Went from South Station to Cambridge.  Got myself a Sox tattoo and dedicated it to my Papou.  If I loved them that much after losing in such heartbreaking fashion, I figured it was a permanent love affair.

Game 2, ALCS, 2004: My father was admitted to the hospital following a heart attack at age 57.  We watched game 3 from his bedside despite orders from both of his physicians not to do so.  I remember it being the lowest period of my life.

Game 4, ALCS, 2004: My father and I again watched from the hospital.  We all know what happened.  I remember saying at the time, "Eh, whatever.  Doesn't matter.  They still blew their chance.  Just prolonging the inevitable."

Game 4, World Series, 2004: Final out was just recorded... silence throughout the house.  Tears and hugs all around.

That, to me, is why I love this team and, most importantly, this city and greater New England so much.  It's all one big family.

Cheers, Sox fans.  I love y'all.  Your thriftiness, your codger-y nature, your ornery-ness, your plain and simple fare (baked beans, broccoli, broiled cod, baked potato), your work ethic, your passion, and your resiliency.

See you soon, Papou.  Be well.